


i'll give you the moon

by paintedviolet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AND GAY, Best Friends, Christmas, Clarke is a Bisexual Disaster, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Lexa is a Gay Disaster, M/M, MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE, and christmassy, and happy holidays!, featuring our favourite delinquents + more in the group chat, incredible amounts of pining, it's fluffy, movie + political + music references because our sappy sapphics are nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9057361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedviolet/pseuds/paintedviolet
Summary: Clarke and Lexa are forced to stay overnight in their hotel on Christmas Eve, because of the snowstorm outside.It's a problem for Clarke - she has her Christmas traditions and there's only so much she can do in a hotel room.It's a problem for Lexa, too - for entirely different reasons.Cue the soppy gay pining.





	1. christmas eve

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what I've been working on in the run up to - and on - Christmas. I hope it's as fluffy and as funny as you hope.  
>   
> Happy holidays, everyone; I hope you have a wonderful day!

“Clarke, we have to check out in ten minutes and you are still in your pyjamas,” Lexa states, lips pursed, hands on her hips while she watches the tornado whirling through the room in front of her.

Lexa is ready. She is dressed, teeth brushed, braid immaculate, and her bags currently lie at her feet. Clarke is _not_ as put together – her suitcase regurgitates all of her pre-packed belongings as the blonde searches for her hairbrush. Toothbrush in her mouth, her clothes for today thrown onto the bed in a well-intentioned pile, Clarke is very far from ready and it is making Lexa nervous.

Lexa does not do nervous. Furthermore, she trusts Clarke wholeheartedly. But – her eyes keep flickering to the wall-length windows on the opposite side of the room – she is also wary of the snowstorm currently displaying all of its might outside.

She was not expecting it to arrive just yet. It was supposed to come _tomorrow_ , on Christmas Day, when Clarke and Lexa were safely in their respective parents’ houses and absolutely not at risk of being stranded. They knew it would be a big snowstorm – _One of the worst to hit America in decades_ , the news anchor had drawled just this morning on the hotel room’s TV – so getting gone and getting inside before the snow set in was pertinent.

It seems as if that hasn’t quite happened.

Lexa sighs. She hates it when forces out of her control don’t align with her plans.

This frustration is not just for herself. She is not the one she worries for. Largely, her Christmases have never truly kept that festive _sparkle_ for her. The most important thing, for her, is seeing her family; everything else is just a formality. Her family are understanding; she can reach her parents and Aden whenever. Besides, this current holiday with her friends means she has already seen her big brother, Lincoln, and big sister, Anya. In fact, Lincoln left with his wife Octavia yesterday, and Anya and Raven this morning. Lexa waved Anya and Raven off, left with the sight of Raven yelling along to the song on the stereo in her truck. Anya did her typical show of pretending to disapprove of her girlfriend. The thought of it makes Lexa smile.

No, her frustration, really, is for Clarke. She really doesn’t want Clarke to miss out on her seasonal celebrations. The holiday season may not carry the same excitement for Lexa, but Christmas is something truly special to the artist. Clarke’s excitement levels increase tenfold as soon as October finishes (usually accompanied by a hangover after their annual Hallowe’en party), and tenfold again when December bustles in. The blonde has Christmas presents bought around September time, and she never fails to send her lawyer best friend a message at 6am prompt on Christmas Day, either, knowing that Lexa always wakes up at that time. (On any other day, Clarke would groan at Lexa’s early bird nature, yet for this one day of the year, she accompanies the brunette in her vigour.) And perhaps most importantly, Clarke has her traditions, traditions that make the holidays feel like _Christmas_ to the artist.

Simply, it is like Clarke regains some of her childhood excitement. And it’s just – it’s joyful. It’s joyful to watch. Lexa’s excitement levels increase when Clarke’s does, because Clarke’s Christmas cheer is _that_ infectious.

( _Clarke_ is infectious. Lexa doesn’t understand how she got so lucky to be the blonde’s best friend.)

Thus – if Clarke’s Christmas this year is anything less than wonderful, Lexa is going to have serious words. With what, she doesn’t know. The universe, maybe. She’s a diligent worker; she’ll find a way. She’ll always find a way for Clarke.

Lexa clears her throat. She really needs to not go down that lovesick train of thought.

With her focus back on reality, the lawyer is delighted to discover that Clarke has finished brushing her teeth and is now fully dressed. (Lexa shakes her head incredulously; that woman can move at inhuman speeds, when absolutely necessary.) Now, having returned from the bathroom, Clarke’s haphazardly throwing the last few belongings into her suitcase and zipping it up. Already, Lexa’s shoulders have relaxed to their usual level of tension, and her lips curve into a soft smile, the smile only Clarke can seem to extract from her. It was a rarer sight before, but now it appears when Clarke does… anything at all. Like breathe, for example.

(She is in way too deep.)

“Ready to go?” Lexa questions.

Clarke nods. “Definitely.” A pause – “Wait.” She darts to unplug her phone charger from its socket. Half a minute or so of shoving it back into the suitcase, and Clarke announces that she finally _is_ ready – apart from her coat, gloves, hat and boots. And her handbag. Lexa steps out of the way to let her best friend get by, not missing the daunted look that flashes across that broad, pretty face of hers, and the lawyer’s heart clenches at the sight of it.

(She is in _way_ too deep.)

“You called the taxi, right?” Clarke asks, her eyes focusing on the spot above Lexa’s head as she struggles into her coat. Lexa nods. The blonde jumps into her boots, zips them up. Then her hat. “And they’re coming in half an hour, right?” Lexa nods again. The blonde knows Lexa has done this – Lexa wouldn’t _not_ do this – but the lawyer nods all the same, sensing Clarke’s need for reassurance. “And you’ve got the money. With this snow…”

“We’ll be covered whatever happens,” Lexa informs her. Perks of being a lawyer. Her eyes are destined to follow the pattern that forms on her best friend’s face whenever Clarke is worried, or overthinking – first the lowering of the eyes, then the scrunching of the button nose, then the bottom lip being pulled in by the teeth. Lexa picks up her suitcase in her right hand before stepping forward. Her other hand on Clarke’s arm tells her to relax – “You paid for all the other taxi rides,” the lawyer asserts. “I can pay for this one.”

Clarke frowns. “But the snow, the taxi will be—”

“I’m a lawyer. Expense can be covered.” She’s not boasting, just supplying mere fact. As one of the most highly reputable law firms throughout the entire East Coast, it is no secret that Woods & Associates win well, and pay well. “Think of it as a treat.”

She sincerely hopes Clarke will relent. She paid for the taxis, and for drinks, and for a whole host of other things on this holiday out with their friends. An artist Clarke is, but starving she is not; nonetheless, most bank accounts can only take so much.

Also, they’ve spent at least half a minute just looking at each other, a battle of wills unfolding between the two highly-strung women. The brunette’s hand has been folded tenderly around the artist’s arm for at least half a minute; she can feel that innate warmth seeping out of Clarke, rushing from the skin of her hand to the very tips of her toes.

Lexa has been standing very close to Clarke for at least half a minute.

She simply _cannot_ think about that. Her head will erupt.

Thankfully, Clarke concedes. Finally. With a hug, no less. Lexa takes it as gracefully as she _can_ take such surprises, stopping just short of melting into the embrace completely, and she schools her face into an expression of complacency when Clarke eventually lets go. The blonde’s hand lingers at her elbows, her head bowed – just for a second, before Clarke is back to her energetic self, practically bouncing with all of the enthusiasm and worry a close Christmas taxi call requires. Gloves are whipped out of a coat pocket and shoved on, and then they are ready to go.

They are ready to go. Lexa breathes a sigh of relief.

 

 

This relief does not last long. An hour later, Lexa is scowling.

The whole hotel is in chaos. Clarke’s bottom lip has been worried so much it’s drawing blood _(god_ dammit _Lexa, focus on the important things)_ and her nose keeps scrunching periodically as she sniffs. It’s a combination of her worry, and the result of a short, freezing trip outside to confirm that the taxi had, indeed, failed to turn up. All because of this _fucking snowstorm._

Sat in the entrance room of the hotel, paralysed by their misfortune, they can only witness the panicked situation of the hotel staff around them. People whizz around, sometimes running around in circles in an effort to unscramble their heads. Lexa is 90% certain she’s seen a cook chase a live turkey through the entrance room. Only 90%, though – in her ire, she’s not quite sure if her active imagination is making things worse.

“What about the guests?!”

“The backup generators still aren’t working from last week—”

“What do you mean the…? Oh, fuck—”

“Annabel, can you _please_ summon the cleaners and get them to—”

“Why the _fuck_ are you still chasing a turkey, Will? Where did it even come from?”

Apparently she _didn’t_ imagine the turkey. It’s a nice relief to discover that she is _not_ , in fact, hallucinating.

Lexa is trying to match her breathing to the regularity of Clarke’s nose scrunching. It’s not working. She is exactly one blunder wrong from shouting at the next person who tries to talk to her. Clarke is doing all she can to keep Lexa somewhat calm – a feat in itself – but she’s not in a great state of mind either.

Why would she be? She’s missing out on her perfect Christmas.

Lexa’s heart drops all the way to the floor. Oh, God, Clarke’s going to miss out on her family Christmas.

The same revelation seems to sneak up on the blonde in question, because she sinks further and further into the sofa, crystal blue eyes gazing despondently out to the hotel’s car park.

Well, now Lexa _is_ irate.

“Sammy’s saying we give the checked-out guests their rooms back—”

“Then Sammy doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. We’ve got guests arriving _now_ looking like abominable snowmen and people who never even booked in…”

The two administration staff rush off, high heels clacking. Lexa thinks it’s not too dissimilar to the clocks that tick in the courtrooms.

“What about the ovens? Can they withstand a night of this?”

“All the _food_ —”

The hotel entrance’s doors open; Lexa’s head perks up at the sight of people shuffling in. The gusts bring a flurry of wet snow and the room collectively shivers at the sudden draught. At least the new guests have the decency to look sheepish.

“Jesus, will someone _please_ shut that door?!”

Clarke shudders with cold beside the lawyer. Without warning, she snuggles up to the Lexa. The bobble of the blonde’s hat pokes the brunette’s nose, but she’s hardly in a position to complain. She clamps down her frustration at their abandonment and instead wraps an arm around the artist, the soothing motions of her hand automatic and unquestioned. Just as they have been for years now.

“We’re stuck here, aren’t we?” Clarke sighs. “We’ll miss Christmas.”

“Apparently,” Lexa confirms, managing to keep out the scowl in her voice. “It won’t be a conventional Christmas, at least.”

Now, Clarke shoots up. Considering her previous moping, Lexa is astonished to find a smile on the blonde’s face – perhaps not the dazzling smile Clarke usually displays around this time of year, but a softer one. The artist gazes at Lexa almost excitedly, and the lawyer stares wondrously back.

“Okay, so, it won’t be conventional, but it doesn’t have to be terrible. I’ll be with you, won’t I?” Clarke responds. “We can enjoy Christmas together.”

There she goes again – Clarke’s tenderness breaks through her worries, and Lexa smiles at her.

It doesn’t sound so bad at all.

 

 

Correction: Christmas with Clarke may be harder to navigate than previously thought.

The problem lies not with Clarke, but, rather, Lexa herself. And – she allows herself _some_ leeway at least – their friends.

She’ll get to the former problem in a second.

Her friends – _their_ friends – are wonderful people, truly. Lexa thinks a lot of them. She’s _obligated_ to feel affection for Anya and Lincoln, sure, but that comes easily with the natural bond the three siblings share. Raven and Octavia, besides, are firecrackers in their own right. Raven’s feisty nature has culminated in a few nights that would undoubtedly get Lexa fired – if, a) her boss knew about them, and b) her boss was not her mother. Octavia’s the worthy equal of Raven, though perhaps a little less eager to blow things up, and a little more mature now she’s married to Lincoln. (Thank goodness. Lexa’s very grateful for her brother’s calming effects on that woman.) The others – Wells, Bellamy, Monty and Jasper – have their own merits, and Lexa is very fond of them all.

She’s not fond, however, of how much they mock her for her pining. Which brings her back to the former problem. Her very serious pining problem.

They’re all in on it – everyone except Clarke. Most shockingly, her _siblings_ have abandoned her for an opportunity to lovingly make fun of her. Traitors, she calls them.

Even customary calls to make sure that her friends are not under 3 feet of snow must, apparently, turn into the next instalment of what Raven has enthusiastically termed, ‘Help Commander Heart Eyes Get Some’.

Her friends are wonderful, truly. (They’ll never stop calling her ‘Commander Heart Eyes’, either.)

The first call is to Raven and Anya; what with Lincoln and Octavia leaving yesterday, they are less of a priority. Furthermore, Clarke is already on that. Laid down on the bed, legs pressed tightly to her chest in an attempt to conserve heat, her face is glued to her phone as she texts Octavia.

The blonde is swaddled under what must be her thickest sweater, the sleeves ending way past her fingertips, and her toes poke out to display her bright red Christmas socks. They match with the a-little-too-large Santa hat Clarke swapped her beanie for as soon as they returned to the hotel room. She looks absolutely adorable, intently gazing at her phone on the bed as she is.

Lexa watches the blonde with a bubbling mixture of affection and dread. When the hotel finally started letting untethered guests back into rooms, Lexa and Clarke were allocated a room with a king-size bed.

Not two single beds, like last night – oh, no. _One_ king-sized bed.

So, Clarke is sat on the sole bed in the room, the bed _both_ of them will have to sleep in tonight if the snowstorm doesn’t calm down.

Lexa doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or cry.

(Clarke is a snuggler. She knows this; she’s grown up with Clarke being a snuggler, at sleepovers and the like.

The fact leaves her with little comfort.)

She has to get that image out of her head. She brings up Anya’s contact in her phone and dials the number, leaning against the panel of the wall as she patiently waits for a response.

Three rings later, and Anya responds. _“Sounds like shit really hit the fan today, Lexa. I’m guessing you made it out alive?”_

No hello, then. Anya’s definitely picked that trait up from Raven. “Alive, yes. Made it out? No. Where are you two, anyway?”

_“We made it to Sinclair’s house before the snow got too much for us. You know what Raven’s like; she wanted to prove her truck could make it through this shitstorm. Almost had to push the damned thing halfway to Sin’s house.”_

Lexa snorts. “How very Raven.”

A new voice pops up onto the phone, slightly fainter but still unmistakeably the mechanic in question. _“I’ll have you know, my truck is a_ champion _of the highways! A true legend, a—”_

_“We get the idea, babe.”_

Raven’s voice is clearer now. _“The world deserves to know, Anya. Oh, I hope you know you’re on loudspeaker, Commander.”_

Lexa groans quietly. “Again with the Commander nickname.”

It’s at this moment that Clarke’s head snaps up from looking at her phone. She directs a very self-satisfied grin towards Lexa – and really, it must be a law of the universe or something that dictates Lexa’s complete inability to do anything except smile in response.

The blonde nods towards the phone in Lexa’s hand, a quizzical yet still confident eyebrow raise executed perfectly. She mouths one word, the name of the only other person often associated with Lexa’s famed nickname – aside from Lexa and herself, of course. _Raven?_

“And Anya,” Lexa supplies her best friend.

 _“She’s talking to Clarke,”_ Anya helpfully notes, voice dripping in barely contained snark. _“What a surprise.”_

Raven snorts. _“When is she not?”_

Lexa curses the physical limitations of distance. What she’d do to send the mechanic a withering glare right now. (The stare doesn’t work on Anya.)

Clarke cannot hear them; thank God. “Are they home? Safe?”

Lexa nods. “They’re with Sinclair. The snow stopped them from going further.”

A small, unthinkingly expected weight is lifted off her own shoulders when she sees Clarke relax a little more into the bed. (The _bed._ The brunette’s insides witter with nervous anticipation.)

“Tell them I said hi!” the artist chirps. “Linc and O are home safe, by the way. They wish us good luck.”

The lawyer has a feeling that Octavia’s and Lincoln’s well wishes are a lot less to do with the snow storm than Clarke expects. Nevertheless, Lexa remains courteous. “Please thank them for me.” As Clarke busies herself with replying to the married couple, Lexa directs her next words to her sister and her sister’s girlfriend. “Clarke says hi, if you’re wondering. She’s talking to Lincoln and Octavia.”

_“Yes, we know, Lexa. That’s what group chats are made for.”_

“Sorry, Raven; I apologise for not having multiple phones at my command so I can respond to everything at once.”

 _“Sorry, Rae. She has a point,”_ Anya very gently lets Raven down. Her girlfriend must be giving Lexa’s sister her best pout, because Lexa hears a consoling, _“You’ll figure out a solution someday.”_

 _“Damn right I will.”_ Lexa snorts; of course the mechanic’s back to her confident self in three seconds flat. _“Octavia’s giving us all the details that Clarke’s told her in the GC, Lexa.—”_

 _“According to Clarke, you snapped at a receptionist for running into her. That’s my girl,”_ Anya helpfully supplies. _“Apparently Clarke found your furious chivalry endearing. It’s a mystery how you two haven’t jumped each other’s bones yet.”_

Lexa’s usually steady heartrate rockets in that moment; she angrily shushes Anya and Raven, shutting down the hopelessly hopeful part of her that cries out in joy at her sister’s comment. She cannot be dealing with false hope, not now. Not with the night – and day – ahead of her. Surreptitiously, she puts on a look of slightly morose acceptance and unzips her suitcase, hauling out her washbag and prowling off to the bathroom. Clarke glances up but watches her leave. Aiming for casual acting, the lawyer sincerely hopes that the blonde interprets the action as nothing more than Lexa resigning herself to spending another night in the hotel.

The brunette closes the door of the bathroom and sighs. She can scold the two giggling girls on the other side of the phone without fear of getting caught.

“ _Not_ appreciated,” she scowls amidst their laughter.

However, the laughter does not die down. No. It only increases.

Lexa is puzzled. Her reaction – or Anya’s comment, even – were not worthy of such hilarity. She frowns for a second, before resolving to let them calm down first before asking questions. It’s pointless trying to coerce them otherwise.

She looks around the bathroom. Structurally, it’s the same to the last one: toilet situated on the right, tucked away and opposite the sink basin; the shower immediately opposite. With the lights on, the porcelain white is washed in the same buttery glow she was squinting against this morning. It’ll be muscle memory at this point. Realising things would look awfully suspicious if she returned with her washbag still intact, the lawyer deposits her washbag on the basin and one-handedly assigns its contents to their designated places.

 _“Lexa, oh my god, you didn’t tell me you were sleeping in the same bed as Clarke!”_ Raven hoots.

Lexa freezes. Her toothbrush stays clutched in her hand, her arm paused mid-reach.

So _that’s_ what they were laughing at. She’s never going to hear the end of this.

“I didn’t get round to it,” she responds through gritted teeth. Her arm resumes its movement.

Anya and Raven are still laughing.

 _“No wonder Linc and O wished you good luck,”_ Anya snorts. _“That was all Lincoln’s idea; did you know?”_

 _Dammit, Lincoln._ Lexa had such high hopes for him. “My familial ties with you both have been permanently severed,” she announces dramatically, but that apparently makes her sister laugh more.

Eventually, Raven manages to compose herself enough to start speaking again. _“Okay, no, we are so making a group chat about this. We’ll invite Bell, Wells and Jonty too. Clarke doesn’t have to know so don’t worry, Commander. We’ll make your attempt to get some as entertaining and as secret as possible.”_

Lexa gulps. This is going to be a nightmare.

“Please don’t,” she whispers. She has nothing left. She has to resort to begging. “Raven; I’ll explode.”

 _“Exactly! You’ve got to tell her one day. You can’t keep holding things in forever.”_ She can almost _hear_ Anya grin down the phone to her. _“Trust me, it’s better out than in.”_

Unusually wise and welcoming words from the self-professed ‘Queen of Darkness’, there. (Teenage Anya was truly a sight to behold.) “Raven refused to talk to you for three days,” Lexa reminds her sister.

 _“I was_ adjusting _, okay? The terrifying goddess I’m in love with told me she wanted to date me. I needed to get my head around that,”_ Raven rushes to defend herself. _“Anyway, you’re not getting out of this, Commander. Talk on the chat!”_

There’s no customary goodbye or anything, as Lexa expects of the pair of them now. Just the dial tone, followed by repeated _ping_ s on her phone to let her know that the group chats are active.

Lexa does not want to look at the messages. Currently, streaking in the snowstorm sounds more appealing than reading the messages.

She sighs, and opens the notifications.

**_Chat created: mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_reyesoflight added harleywoods_ **

**_reyesoflight added misslexawoods_ **

**_reyesoflight changed misslexawoods’s nickname to commanderhearteyes_ **

**_reyesoflight added thebetterblake_ **

**_reyesoflight added lincolnpark_ **

**_reyesoflight added orpheusblake_ **

**_reyesoflight added eatyourgreens_ **

**_reyesoflight added wellsjahaha_ **

**_reyesoflight added jaspermichaeljordan_ **

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _welcome welcome to the christmas edition of help lexa get laid_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _if we get lucky by the end of the tomorrow we won’t hear from clarke and lexa_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _cause they’ll be the ones getting lucky_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _if you get what i mean_

**_harleywoods:_ ** _Raven, you’re as subtle as a brick wall._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _and you love me for it_

**_harleywoods:_ ** _True, unfortunately._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _1) This is ridiculous and I don’t stand for it._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _2) Why am I the only one with a forcibly imposed chat nickname?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _because it’s hilarious_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _i still can’t believe you let clarke tell raven that story_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Unfortunately my drunk self rarely pays attention to discretion. I still regret it._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _you better not bc none of us regret it at all_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _it’s literally clarke’s favourite word, she told me that at the club a few nights ago_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Oh my God._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _exactly. we’re literally never going to let that go, lexa_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _what have i been added to?_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _A lexa intervention. What did you expect?_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _fairs_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I hate you all._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _love you too lexie <3_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _i’m at work though guys so maybe don’t spam too much thanks_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _lol don’t raise your standards too high_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _clarke and lexa are stuck together in one bed over xmas and you’re more concerned about work??? i’m disappointed bell_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _wait holy shit lemme get the popcorn_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _hold up seriously? omg tell us everything_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _@ jasper we have no more popcorn you ate it all last night when we marathoned lotr_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _roommate goals_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _boyfriend goals_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _absolutely_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _does clarke know about this chat, raven?_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _shhh sweet wells, clarke doesn’t know what she doesn’t need to know_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _OK LISTEN UP Y’ALL_

Lexa firmly puts her phone away in her back pocket and marches out of the bathroom, a blush slowly making its way across her neck to her face. She does not need to keep seeing that. She does not need to keep being a part of that.

She is, however, curious about the other group chat – the normal one, the one _including_ Clarke this time – so she deliberately ignores her notifications from the other chat as she digs her phone out and taps on the calmer group messages. Much to her relief, everyone appears to be behaving normally: everyone is wishing each other a merry Christmas and safe journeys in this abysmal weather, Bellamy has promised to keep everyone updated on the snowstorm, and Raven has sent some serious requests to organise _the snowball fight to end all snowball fights._ They’ve actually managed, somehow, to sound like adults; a miracle, in Lexa’s book.

A notification makes itself known on her phone again – accidentally, Lexa opens the group chat she was hoping to avoid.

**_mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _so lexa basically has to be the most gentlewomanly gentlewoman there ever was_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _wanna be the very best, like no one ever was_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _GOTTA CATCH ‘EM ALL_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _wait what’s lexa gonna catch tho?_

**_harleywoods:_ ** _These hands if she doesn’t get her ass in gear and stop this pining disaster._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _OOO go off anya_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _anya, ever since i first saw you and your intimidating eyeliner i knew i would love you forever_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _this has just proved it_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _jas where are my poetic love declarations :(_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _You guys don’t have to say anything for us to know you’re dating, dw monty you’re safe_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _tru you’re both so fucking obvious_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _:)_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _:)_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _@ jasper the first time you saw anya she socked you in the jaw_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _that was when i knew i was i feeling true love_

Lexa rolls her eyes as she firmly stores her phone away. For good, this time. She loves her friends, she does. They’re also the weirdest bunch of people she’s ever met.

Octavia does have a point, however. In order to survive this unplanned extension of her time with Clarke, she will have to be as considerate as possible. Perhaps it won’t be in the way Octavia anticipates – no, Lexa will have to be gentlewomanly and _careful._ There will certainly not be the courteous wooing her friends are expecting.

And Anya has a point, also. Lexa is going to have to suffer through Anya’s inevitable frustration once Lexa has, once again, failed to carry through a solution to this _pining disaster._

“Enjoyed your holiday?” is what the lawyer hears from the main hotel room. Clarke is speaking to her, smirking at her.

Lexa crosses the room to her suitcase and sets about unpacking the rest of her belongings – to keep up the pretence if nothing else. She hikes up her eyebrows in curious innocence at the blonde.

“In the bathroom. You took a long time,” Clarke explains. Beside her, her phone demands her attention with consistent new notifications.

A sudden, tempered exhilaration builds up in Lexa, and she responds, “Feeling lonely?”

(The lawyer has to mentally high-five herself for not stumbling through her words.)

Astoundingly, she watches at the other girl bites her lip, before Clarke replies nonchalantly, “Yeah. You were gone for _forever_ , Lex. I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

There’s a clear appetite to tease in the blonde’s words – that, Lexa is sure of. But, as the lawyer hangs her clothes on the provided clothes racks, she can detect hints of vulnerability in there, too. It’s almost like Clarke, for all her dramatic flair, wants Lexa to be by her side as much as Lexa wants to be there.

Lexa’s heart aches desperately at that thought.

She’s interpreting it too deeply, she knows. Clarke is just happy to at least be spending Christmas with her best friend. She pauses at the hotel’s closet and starts to count to three in her head, settling herself into something more controlled. She has to do this so many times around Clarke, so her best friend doesn’t have to know that Lexa is in love with her. She has to do this to protect them, _preserve_ them.

1, 2, 3.

Her eyes focus on the dimly-lit contents of the closet – the soft cotton of her shirts; the cushioning wool of her jumpers. The smooth denim of her jeans; the fur of her hooded coat. (Faux fur, of course.)

Okay. She’s ready now.

Lexa turns around, contentment in place on her face as if it never left. “I’ll always come back,” she responds calmly, cheerily almost. Her smile almost immediately slips off her face. Shit. She did not plan on saying that.

In her back pocket, her phone buzzes furiously.

The artist opposite blinks at her, before the smile reappears in full force again. Clarke doesn’t respond – she doesn’t need to acknowledge that she already knows the earnest promise in Lexa’s words – but instead pats the space beside her on the bed.

Lexa feels herself being pulled towards Clarke, a sunflower grasping for light. She is powerless, and feels the power in it.

She is the sunflower at full height; a flourish before the bow of winter. She is Icarus, Prometheus and their own punishments. Under the sun, she is all she could be, and all of the consequences of herself.

What a beautifully crucial, beautifully destructive position to be in.

The bed bounces underneath her weight as she climbs on it. The snowstorm howls on, sunlight blocked from wrathful clouds – but light still touches every corner of this room. Clarke smiles up at her – all soft, spring sunshine – and twists herself fully to face the brunette.

“So,” the artist starts.

“So?”

“What do we do now? It looks like we’re stuck here overnight, so we might as well do _something_ ,” Clarke explains. Her hand peeks out from under its sleeve, and the blonde twists the duvet between her fingers. Before Lexa has a chance to reply, she huffs. “What do you do at Christmas, Lex?”

Lexa stops short. The only concrete fact about her Christmas is that she gets to see her family in its entirety. Apart from that, she views it as another holiday, something she is happy to take advantage of.

“I see family,” Lexa shrugs. “I… sometimes catch up on case papers. — You know what I do, Clarke; why are you asking?”

Clarke glances down to the lawyer’s chin sheepishly. “Okay, I thought you paid a _little_ more attention to the festive season. But that’s fine. We just have less we can try to replicate in this room.”

Lexa eyes her, not comprehending, until it clicks. “You want to re-enact our Christmases in the confines of this hotel room?”

The blonde nods enthusiastically. “Yep.”

“We cannot have a Christmas dinner in this hotel room, Clarke.”

Clarke laughs. Outside, the unloading of snow pauses in its intensity; for a few moments, the snow falls with grace. “I didn’t mean _everything_ , obviously. We’ll have to improvise. We’ll go off course if we have to. But we have to do _something_ ; I can’t stand the idea of lazing about these next two days.”

“You’re perfectly fine with lazing about the rest of the year,” Lexa points out, as if she is not already on board with this idea. As if she’d ever say no to Clarke carrying on her Christmas traditions. Or say no to Clarke in general.

The artist grins, the accomplished smile almost permanently carved. She _knows_ , alright. She knows Lexa has already said yes. “This is _Christmas_ , Lexa. And, even better – this will be _our_ Christmas.”

Lexa wonders if it’s possible to halt time – discard autumn, discard winter, live in a perpetual spring instead. Despite the awful weather outside, she feels like she’s managed it already.

She nods and offers, “I will do my best to make sure you enjoy it.”

Clarke’s smile grows toothy. The lawyer is unable to prevent her responding smile. “Not to sound cheesy, but we _both_ better enjoy it or I’ll be stroppy with you, Lex. I’ll get Anya on you.”

Lexa huffs. “Please. We both know Anya will be too busy with Raven to really care.” Before the blonde can retort, she allows herself to curl into a comfier position on the bed and adds, “Threats aren’t necessary, anyway. I’ll enjoy this time whatever happens.” She pauses. “I know you have your Christmas traditions. Take me through them.”

 

 

**mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid**

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _all quiet on the clexa front_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _griffin snapped a picture of lexa w clarke’s laptop but i’m not convinced they’re using it_

**_harleywoods left mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _is clarke even looking at her phone? i don’t think so_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Why’d anya go???_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _apparently this chat is “ridiculous” and “distracting her from her client work”_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _she also believes “relaying everything in inverted commas” is “childish” and “you know it, raven”_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _she’ll be with us in spirit_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _i still don’t get how she can hate your humour and still want to share a house with you_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _but then again it makes perfect sense_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _It’s all a lie. Anya’s secretly a dork_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Don’t tell her i said that. She’ll have me for breakfast_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _sibling goals_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _is everything goals to you?_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _yes, especially myself_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _[high-fives self]_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _@ monty why are you dating him_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _because i’m goals_

**_reyesoflight blacklisted the word “goals”_ **

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _RAVEN WHY_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _we’re getting off-topic!! clexa’s absence is Very Unusual_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _are we seeing the birth of their relationship?? find out at 10_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Raven, calm down. We’re just watching a film. Abby phoned so Clarke paused it._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _SHE LIVES_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _what film?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _It’s A Wonderful Life._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _oh my god_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _she’s doing the christmas traditions thing, isn’t she? lucky, she’s talk about it but she’s never shared that with anyone but her family_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _is this a sign???_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _be prepared for emotions. i’ve messaged her over the holidays and she’s like 100x more emotional than usual_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Don’t worry, O, I am all too aware of this._

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _I would have made a joke about lexa being emotionless but then i remembered we’re all here to witness lexa getting her girl_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Harsh. You know I have at least ONE emotion._

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _yeah, it’s called “heart eyes for clarke”_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _that’s my boy monty_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _how’s film watching going?_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _has she cuddled up to you yet?_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _always asking the important questions, reyes._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _don’t expect anything less_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _It’s good._

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _sooooo??_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _no no wait, that’s lexa-speak for “i am extremely enjoying this but i don’t want the others to know”_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _EXCELLENT_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _SHE’S HAVING THE FEELINGS_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Keep feeling them, sis. You deserve this happiness_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Thank you, Lincoln. The rest of you – don’t you all have jobs to get to?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Clarke’s back. I’ll dispel any ludicrous rumours later._

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _i thought you might like to know that jasper has tried to type “goals” at least three times and he’s getting annoyed it’s not working_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _go get your girl commander!!_

Clarke bounds onto the bed again. Her face is flushed from her conversation with her mother; what Abby said to her, Lexa is not sure she’d like to know. Regardless, it’s probably more mature than the group chat.

The lawyer extends her arm outwards again as Clarke joins her. The blonde doesn’t even have to look at her to know what Lexa’s pertaining to – she ducks under the arm and settles her head on the other girl’s shoulder, legs stretching out as she relaxes back into her previous position. Lexa feels the effect of Clarke’s presence immediately: a swooping warmth inhabits her insides, and the soft cotton of Clarke’s sweater under the lawyer’s palm sends thoughts of home and sought-after moments of grace hurtling through her head.

_Keep feeling them, sis. You deserve this happiness._

Yet – she’s happy enough where she is now, even stuck between complacency and the cold, hard ground like this.

Is she?

(No, of course she is not. But Clarke’s friendship means more to her than words can describe. She’s not about to sacrifice that for a hopeless risk.)

The brunette clears her throat, banishes her thoughts. “How many tears did Abby shed when you told her you couldn’t make it to her house?” she questions Clarke. She teases, but Abby is very dear to Lexa. She’s the second mother Lexa always wanted. “10? 20?”

“Around 15, I’d say,” Clarke responds, her voice gravelly. The sound of it does all sorts of incredible things to Lexa’s insides. “It didn’t go as badly as I expected. Abby made me promise to eat the turkey she’ll be storing for me.”

“A veritable success.”

“I’ll say. Did you miss me while I was gone?” the blonde asks, a cheeky smile fluttering onto her face.

“Always.” _Again, Lexa?_ She huffs to herself.

The blonde snakes an arm around Lexa’s back to find its place at the other girl’s hip. The brunette’s breath hitches – just barely, barely – and she hopes to the God she’s never believed in that Clarke didn’t notice.

The artist, however, does stop for a second to watch Lexa. The brunette refuses to meet her eyes, instead peering at the screen in front of her. James Stewart peers back at her, dramatic and despondent.

Lexa can relate. The film’s interwoven anguish has certainly done nothing to alleviate her circling anxiety over these next two days. Yet, according to Clarke, this film seems to be worth it.

(“It’s feel-good!” the blonde insisted as she stole the laptop back from Lexa’s hands. “It’s a film about how important you are to others. George Bailey gets to see what life would be like without him and decides to stay alive after all. _Plus_ it’s Christmassy.” She planted the laptop back onto the lawyer’s lap. “There. I changed the IP address so we can get the UK version of Netflix. Why do _they_ get _It’s A Wonderful Life_ and we don’t? It’s stupid.”

Lexa blinked a few times at the change of screen. A nudge from the blonde’s elbow forced her into action; her fingers moved of their own accord. “Are you sure it’s worth suffering through all that despair, just to get to the end?”

“Lex, it’s not like it’s always miserable,” Clarke snorted. Yet – Lexa watched her expression change, minute developments she’d documented so well. “Trust me, it’s worth it.”

Lexa watched the other woman; she whispered no words and waited patiently. She knew Clarke, knew that she preferred to confess without prompting.

“I – it was the first film I picked up after Jake died. I watched it a few times that Christmas. I needed to hear that message.”

Lexa nodded. She remembered that time well – when the ground fell out from beneath Clarke’s feet and it was all Lexa and their friends could do just to keep her hanging on.)

“Good,” Clarke sighs contentedly, burrowing her head into the other woman’s shoulder once more. “That’s how I like it.”

Back to the present. Her brain is slow to remind her of their current conversation.

“Are you going to keep pouting at me or are we going to watch George Bailey regain his joy for life?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry.” Lexa taps a key on the laptop and the film resumes.

The film, she notices, is charming and easy to watch. However, watching Clarke is more entertaining.

Clarke couldn’t get comfortable, so she took her head off Lexa’s shoulder and sat up. They’re still attached to each other, still keeping their sides pressed together (but at this point that’s neither here nor there). Consequently, Lexa has an excellent view of the blonde as she watches the film in front of her. It absorbs her; the lawyer’s certain that all but a hurricane will go ignored while the screen flashes with life.

It is only because of this fact that Lexa feels safe watching Clarke as she does, taking any and every micro-expression in. She’ll capture these moments in detail, store them in her brain’s special _Clarke_ compartments, ready for analysis and appraisal.

There are moments when the blonde’s reactions are so vivid, they convey more emotion than the film itself. It’s like a vibrant, moving painting contrasted against the monochrome stuttering; the sensation comes to life when brushed across squinted eyes and rose lips stretched across a broad face. Lexa’s world is often facts and figures, laws and Latin – yet in these moments, she realises why art is so venerated.

_“What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.”_

_“I’ll take it. Then what?”_

_“Well, then you can swallow it, and it’ll all dissolve, see… and the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair... am I talking too much?”_

She watches Clarke mouth the words, and she is fascinated.

She knows exactly what her siblings would say if they could hear her right now. _You’re soft_ , they would chortle. _Big Bad Lexa, all soft for a girl._ And that’s precisely the point.

Lexa has a reputation for being fearless – _ruthless_ , even. She’s famed for powering through prickly situations as if they’re child’s play. She can cut down opposing opinions with little more than a fine-tuned glare, and she has performed, on more than one occasion, what Anya has so eloquently termed _the corporate equivalent of drop-kicking someone off a tower._ For God’s sake, her nickname is _the Commander._ Miss Alexandria Woods is a woman to be feared.

But when it comes to Clarke – oh, when it comes to Clarke.

When it comes to Clarke, Miss Alexandria Woods becomes Lexa; she’s the same girl who fell in love with Clarke in kindergarten – when the bouncing blonde introduced herself with a business proposition.

(“I liked your dinosaur story,” a voice announced.

Lexa’s head snapped up, before her eyes found the source of this praise. Then she blinked, taking in all 3 feet of said source with something a little too close to wonder. Unexplainably to her child mind, her hands began to tremble the slightest amount.

“T-thank you,” Lexa responded, her words polite and sincere just as her parents taught her.

Those eyes, bluer than Lexa’s favourite crayon, brimmed with promise and easy excitement. “Can I draw it for you? Mommy says I draw good.”

It seemed Lexa had no choice – the blonde jumped into the empty seat next to the brunette, beaming at the other girl with the force of the Sun.

It brought out Lexa’s smile, seeds growing shoots. She didn’t even think about it; it was effortless.

“I’m Lexa.” She thought it right to say _something._

“I know, silly,” the blonde replied, her beam extending into a toothy grin. A little pink tongue poked out between the baby teeth. “I’m Clarke. Nice to meet you, Lex.”

No one had ever called her _Lex_ – and definitely not within a minute of meeting her.

Lexa liked it. She was determined to keep this girl around.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Clarke,” she nodded.

If anyone had watched every moment they’d had together, from the start to the present, they’d know that this is where it all starts. They’d have recalled how the reverence found its beginning right here, in a chaotic kindergarten classroom where no one else was listening.)

The artist is not watching the film. It takes Lexa a few seconds to realise this – unbuttoning the cloak of treasured memories tends to take a little time – and she clears her throat when she surfaces fully to reality. Clarke’s crystal eyes are huge; pale reflections of light cast from the laptop make their hue transparent, and in this moment they are as unfathomable to the lawyer as the deepest ocean.

It is a very confusing moment. Lexa keeps watching, waiting for a clue. She casts thoughts of her heart pounding aside, despite the gnawing anticipation growing, for what Clarke is about to say.

Eventually, an exhalation of the softest kind is expelled from the blonde’s mouth. It’s a little sigh of contentment, and immediately the lawyer’s stress levels deplete considerably.

(Lexa was not looking at her lips.

Lexa was definitely looking at her lips.)

“Thank you,” Clarke tells the brunette earnestly. “Thank you for doing this for me. I know I asked, but you didn’t have to. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lex.”

 _I don’t know what I’d do without you._ The sentence snatches at her heart and squeezes it.

She has to watch the blonde for a few seconds, to muster all the courage she has to continue her stoicism. _Do you know the effect your words have?_ the lawyer wants to respond. _Do you know how much they mean to me?_

Instead, she says, “It’s my pleasure, Clarke,” and the reverence in her voice, in the dip of her pitch and the sharp _k_ , is as strong as ever.

 

 

**mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid**

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _clarke’s told me the power’s gone out_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _and it took lexa three seconds before she started unboxing her candles_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _THREE SECONDS_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _@ lexa those were your christmas presents! to open on christmas!_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _you have definitely never followed that rule, sis. among many other rules, placed there for a reason, for your safety,,_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _do as i say, not as i do_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _I can hear bell’s aneurysm from here_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I worry for your future children, Octavia. I also predict that Bellamy will whisk them off you in a panic._

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _lexa’s back!! how’s it going?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _lincoln will bring them right back. he secretly intimidates bell :)_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _What_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _no he doesn’t what the_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _how many times has clarke growled at her sketch since the lights went out? i’ve asked her but she won’t tell me_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _It’s going well, Monty. We both pass our well wishes onto everyone here, and also wish your families/companions good luck in their time with you._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _@ Octavia – she knows you all too well. I’ve sworn an oath not to tell anyone._

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _give us a clue? a ballpark?_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _at least 10_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _i will name my firstborn after you if you tell us_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I have a duty to my people first. And by my people, I mean Clarke. Clarke comes first, not that I apologise for that._

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _#betrayed_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _how will we ever get over this cruel act_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _you’re so dramatic jasper_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _i say 15, she’s been drawing by candlelight for an hour right?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Damn it._

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _best friend intuition. i’m sure you can relate, lexa_

Clarke is meant to be sketching. Lexa is meant to be reading. Except she is not reading: she is on her phone; and Clarke is struggling to capture her artistic vision. This is the unhappy product of the _fucking snowstorm_ – the power has gone out, taking the lights, the electricity and the water with it. Lexa has provided candles, but they know most will not be so lucky.

(It was not _three seconds_ , as Octavia pertains. Maybe half a minute at most. Besides, ten seconds of her time were spent attempting to prevent Clarke from throwing the very expensive charcoal she was currently using at the wall.)

Frankly, it was all Lexa could provide in these circumstances – and they are fortunate they even had them on hand, courtesy of Octavia and Lincoln – but Clarke’s sketch will be difficult to save now. At least, in Clarke’s head. Lexa understands this, somewhat: lighting matters more to the blonde on a deeper level than to the vast majority of the human population. To start a piece with one level of light and to finish bathed in another will throw off the cohesion of it significantly.

Still, to Lexa, it looks breath-taking.

(Her trip to retrieve a sweater provided her with an excuse to see the sketch. She put her hand on Clarke’s shoulder, squeezed it when her eyes flickered furiously to take in every detail. She could not hold back her gasp.

It was incomplete, but the artist’s concept was clear: nature; sprawling, living, growing, taking over the human landscape. She could see a fountain – the centrepiece of the work – filled to the brim with grasses; a potted plant knocked over with the contents spilling out onto the cracked, overwhelmed tile floor. At the bottom of the page, the blonde was currently drawing a man falling into a bed of weeds, a vine snaked around his foot. It was all charcoal, scruffy, with a lot of the detail missing – but Lexa loved it. She could _see_ the colours in the monochrome, the vibrancy. There was even euphoria in the swipes Clarke put down on the paper.

Not Clarke’s own personal euphoria of course, but rather the artist’s intuition; before Lexa had placed her hand on the blonde’s shoulder, the blonde had cursed for the tenth time that night. The candle on the desk ( _pine cones, thank you Lincoln and Octavia_ ) was clearly failing to meet Clarke’s standards.

“Sorry. It’s messy; it’ll look better when it’s painted.”

“Clarke, it’s brilliant. There’s no need to apologise,” the lawyer responded in a hushed tone. “ _Look_ at it. It’s a masterpiece.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to,” the other girl smirked up at Lexa, but the brunette detected the same hint of insecurity as often pervaded these conversations. “It’s scruffy. It’s fine to say it, Lex.”

Lexa would never, _ever_ understand Clarke’s self-doubt. It made no logical sense. “I say it’s brilliant because it truly is. All your work is. You didn’t get to where you are today by luck, Clarke,” Lexa responded diligently. She cocked her head to the side as she considered the latter part of the blonde’s response. “It’s unkempt, yes, but this isn’t your final piece. Besides… it works. Maybe refine the plants, but keep the wilderness of the civilisation.”

She squeezed Clarke’s shoulder once more, and moved off to open the closet door. Clarke didn’t reply, though that didn’t worry Lexa.)

So here Lexa is now, on the bed sporting her favourite scarlet sweater, watching Clarke once more. Not… solidly, not like with the film, but in small bursts of affection, warm candlelight tugging at the corner of her lips.

 _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , in its entirety, surprised her with how much she enjoyed it. Her point, she believes, still stands – it’s an unusually downcast subject for something as supposedly uplifting as Christmas. But she recognises its relevance, recognises the need for a happy ending. Furthermore, she recognises _Clarke’s_ need for the film. Its relevance in that respect, she supposes, is heightened by the date of Jake’s death: too close to Christmas, and always too close for comfort.

Perhaps Clarke needs that message, of finding hope in hopelessness; finding _reward_ in herself and others. In spite of the cruelty of Jake’s passing, maybe more of those happier endings will occur if they stick to that.

Lexa doubts the world – realistically. Happy endings do not happen because they _ought to_ in this world; it is down to will, and sometimes luck. She is, however, reluctant to give _luck_ any control over her life – and while she doubts the world, she will never doubt Clarke’s potential in life, her ability to continue to be and do good.

(Clarke is so _good._ To extinguish that light would be to cast the world in darkness.)

Accompanied by a Christmas film or not, Lexa would happily remind the blonde of this, endlessly.

The artist has angled her chair into the desk, to the left. Lexa can glimpse the woman’s side profile while she works – nose scrunched adorably, easily Lexa’s favourite micro-expression. Once more, she is fascinating to the lawyer.

 _Lexa_ , she chastises herself. _The staring needs to stop._ She averts her eyes, cheeks warming, and sullenly resigns herself to reading again.

Then Clarke sets her charcoal pencil down dramatically, and all thoughts of reading are banished entirely.

“Okay, I can’t look at that for a second longer,” the blonde announces. She twists in her seat to face her best friend. “Did you get anywhere with your boring politics book?”

Lexa shrugs. “Not particularly. Did you get any further with your sketch?” Her phone demands her attention suddenly; her eyes flicker down automatically and she sees her least favourite group chat still going strong.

**mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid**

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _honestly lincoln’s such a great schemer, it was his idea to get the candles_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _everyone knows lexa adores candles but_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _what was it you said @ lincoln_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _They have a romantic feel to them. It would pay off to get clarke and lexa alone with a few of them_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _see? my hubby’s a genius_

She starts when Clarke gets up from the desk and her eyes widen, eager to conceal the chat’s existence from her best friend. She surreptitiously locks her phone and moves up when Clarke bounds onto the bed, flopping ungraciously onto the silk-feel sheets.

She shudders. She can’t imagine what Clarke would think if she sees the chat.

Luckily, Clarke is more than occupied with frowning at the book Lexa has placed between them. “ _The Party’s Over: The Failure of Politics in America_? You’re reading this for _fun?_ ” Clarke grimaces. “God, no wonder you were scowling at the book. It sounds dull.”

“It’s a fascinating insight into how disillusioned people were with the American political system in the 70s,” Lexa offers. “Exaggerated, but still relevant.” And – Lexa swallows. “I wasn’t scowling. I don’t think.”

The blonde levels her with a playful look. “Lex. You’re my best friend. You think I don’t see things?”

It’s like the world screeches to a halt, tilts upside down. Lexa’s got whiplash. The snow falling steadily outside freezes and reverses, and she forgets how to breathe. The few seconds between Clarke’s last words and her next are some of the most terrifying of her life. (Which is a lot, taking into account the fact that she’s faced hardened criminals in court.)

The artist leans in conspiratorially. Internally, Lexa begins accepting her inevitable death. “It’s okay, Lex; you don’t have to like politics 24/7. No one will judge you for it.” The Santa hat slips down past her forehead and Clarke quickly rights it.

Oh, thank God. Lexa suddenly discovers how to breathe again.

“You got me,” she responds, just as conspiratorially, though hers is audibly shaky. Barely, though. She swallows and collects herself together again. “In all seriousness, it _is_ quite interesting in some—”

“ _Shhhh_ , leave the politics talk for later,” Clarke grins. “I can’t get my sketch right, so I’m bored, and I want you to entertain me.”

 _This girl._ _She’ll be the death of me._ The brunette stares right back at Clarke, eyebrow raised to answer the artist’s challenge.

A quick assessment of the blonde’s expression shows Lexa all she needs to know.

“No more trips to the kitchens,” Lexa shoots down. Clarke whines. “No, Clarke. We already have enough sandwiches to feed a small family.”

She nods over to the packaged sandwiches piled up in a corner of the desk. Lexa got them when Clarke started sketching, to make sure that they didn’t starve: the hotel, knowing full well that the usual cooked meals would not be on offer, was eager to provide their guests with non-perishable items. So sandwiches it was for lunch – eaten upon Lexa’s return to the room, of course, they’d delayed lunch in favour of finishing the film – and sandwiches it would be for the evening, and tomorrow, as well.

“Our small family is very important,” the other girl tries.

Clarke’s puppy eyes are making this a harder plight than it should be – but Lexa is _trying_ , god dammit. She changes tactics, trying to appeal to the artist’s good nature. “There are other people who need to be fed, too. Small families included; not our own.”

What was she doing? When did she start hypothesising about her and Clarke’s family? _Why_ could she not be normal in front of her best friend?

“I’m sure the kids will be devastated,” Clarke plays along. It takes her a few seconds to pluck their children’s names out of thin air. “Joe and Annabelle deserve feeding too!”

Lexa gapes. “We are not calling our children Joseph and Annabelle, Clarke.”

“Then what shall we name them? Taylor? Sam? Elliot? Morgan? Alex? Eden?” Those blue eyes are flashing, half with danger and half with euphoria. Lexa is glad Clarke is enjoying this as much as she is.

Lexa, on the other hand, is struggling to shove away the images of little children playing out of her mind. It plays out in front of eyes, like a film, forbidden and perfect: a daughter with curly brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, clutching the hand of her younger brother, green eyes peeking out from underneath a mop of blonde tousled hair.

She glances away, cheeks starting to burn. She’s being ridiculous. She’s being lovesick.

“I like Sam and Eden,” the brunette answers, continuing the game, hoping the images in her head were not projected through her eyes. “And Morgan. Are we limiting ourselves to two? I thought you preferred having three kids.”

Clarke chuckles. “I told you that when I was… I don’t know, ten, and unaware of how stressful families are,” she responds, a crooked smile flickering on her lips. “I can’t imagine how stressed Abby would get if she had more than one kid. So two’s just fine. Though maybe a Morgan could come along if it feels right.” Her smile grows then; fully-fledged, and Lexa could take flight. “Sam and Eden would be disappointed about not having dinner. You can’t deny it. Don’t you love them?”

The brunette really should have known Clarke would bring the conversation back to the food as soon as possible. “Of course I do.”

With Clarke blinking up at the lawyer through the Santa hat slipping down her head, Lexa is once again reminded of a puppy. A large, wonderful, manipulative puppy.

“So why deprive them of their much-needed nutrition?”

Lexa just sighs.

She can never say no to Clarke.

 

 

That is, undeniably, how Lexa finds herself marching through the hotel’s corridors with Clarke, acting like little kids. Their laughs are louder than the thudding of their footsteps as they pass through elegantly decorated passageways, stiff carpet underfoot and anonymous pompous individuals adorning the walls in gilded frames. At one point, sure-footed Lexa stumbles into a table and almost knocks over a potted plant. Clarke catches it – this time preventing the contents from spilling out, a juxtaposition to the previous careful guidance of her charcoal.

“Do you remember our class trip in eighth grade? We nearly didn’t go home because our teachers couldn’t find Raven,” Lexa reminisces. “We were that bored we split into two teams and battled it out to gain control of all the hotel corridors on the second floor. We all got detention for it, of course.”

“ _I’m so disappointed in you two_ ,” the artist mimics their teacher’s voice, a screechy, nails-on-chalkboard voice they remember even after a decade. “ _Clarke, you are a bright, influential girl whom many of the students adore. You should have used this popularity in the right way._ ”

The worn carpet underneath them gives way to a marble floor, and the two women start descending the pristine stairs. Pristine, of course, if it were not for the puddles of icy, dirty water left behind by the boots of panicked guests.

“ _And_ Lexa,” the lawyer continues the charade. “ _You are the school’s star pupil. Your record is impeccable. So imagine my surprise when you are caught not only partaking this embarrassment of a playground game, but actively_ leading _it!_ ”

Clarke snorts with laughter. “It was amazing, though. No one doubted our leadership capabilities after that game.”

“Our speeches were truly inspiring,” Lexa agrees. “And no one complained too much when we cast aside our differences and joined forces to rule the second floor together. Language barriers be damned.”

“I can’t believe you taught your “warriors” the Woods’ secret language. You’re such a nerd,” Clarke grins. Her eyes come alight again as she remembers new details, blue eyes contrasting against the red of her Santa hat, new shades and angles cast on an image firmly imprinted in her mind.  She links her arms with Lexa’s, and continues, “And Raven was so pissed she missed the game. It was literally the talk of the school. Serves her right for sitting down with a veteran and listening to all his stories about disarming bombs.”

“It was the first step on the path to her job now,” the brunette responds. “She’s working for NASA. I don’t think she’s overly miserable about the whole affair.”

It’s this strange concoction of realities that really gets to Lexa. They’re like little kids again, all grown up but still messing around. All sorts of memories swim to the surface, and they pull on the corners of the lawyer’s mouth.

(Who knew she could be sentimental about hotel walkways? The oddities of love – apparently it turns Miss Alexandria into a complete sap.)

The hotel lobby is quieter now most of the guests have retreated to their rooms. But some people still do mill about – hands rubbing together, frowns settled permanently on their ice-brushed faces. The hotel staff – those still rushing through the rooms – are the ones running about; the guests have resigned themselves to wandering discontentedly, stockpiling food for their stay here. The live turkey has decided it’s one of the guests; it’s taken up residence on one of the lobby’s sofas, preening itself and gobbling angrily when anyone tries to step near it.

Lexa wonders where she fits in with it all. Who is she more like – the haughty mother of three over in the corner, unable to keep her bored kids from messing around? Or the 10 year old girl on the other side of the room, watching the world go by with little more than a scowl on her face? Which one would she prefer to be _more?_

It doesn’t matter. The artist yanks her over to the dining area – and Lexa is forced to follow, lest she allow her arm to be dislocated and be landed with a pricey hospital bill.

It’s an unorthodox way of dealing with food – the hotel staff have laid out all of the food that won’t survive the night (and more besides) on the tables in the dining area for the guests to take at their pleasure. It’s a sort of apology, it seems, for not being prepared enough for this storm, for not being prepared enough to have anything in the kitchens working. Mostly, Lexa’s just glad they won’t be starving overnight – even if the nutrition comes in the form of continental pastries and fruits instead of the standard Christmas meal.

Well, ‘tis the season, she thinks.

There’s no semblance of a queue, no apparition of orderliness. Guests simply cluster in individual groups, swiping what they wish with a grumble and a resigned sigh. If somebody takes the food another person wanted, there’s no catfight, no hissy fit – just a polite nod and a smile of shared misery. In fact, Clarke and Lexa, in all of their millennial glory, their laid-back laughs and unbounded enthusiasm, are quite apart from their stoic counterparts. Still, Lexa’s spine stiffens as she regains some of her _Commander_ persona. It is, obviously, a side effect of growing up slightly wary of the people around her; only the closest to her truly get to see her softer sides. (See: Clarke Griffin.)

Clarke, just as Lexa anticipated, marches straight for the candy section. Surrounded by small children being towed away by their carers, she dives in, picking up various bags for both her and Lexa. The Santa hat the blonde is still wearing accentuates how at home she looks with her hands full of candies.

(Clarke is the coolest person Lexa knows. She’s also a dork. It’s a winning combination.)

The lawyer doesn’t need to point out her preferences; her best friend knows them off by heart. After persuading the blonde to put 3 bags of candy down and replace them with pastries, both are satisfied to have reached a compromise. For prosperity, the other woman also picks up some fruit – going soft, but still definitely edible; maybe she’ll manage to get Clarke to eat healthily for once.

Maybe.

“Another Christmas tradition accomplished; you can tick the Christmas Eve walk off your list. Are you satisfied that Sam and Eden will have plenty to eat now?” Lexa questions, her tone light. She rubs an orange between her hands, an excuse just to keep moving about and keep warm.

Clarke smiles that crooked smile that Lexa loves – playful, yet soft. Clarke could move armies with that smile. “Yes, Lex, our children will be fine with all this. We can come back if they need anything else.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, do you two have kids?” comes from behind them.

Both women nearly jump out of their skin. Clarke nearly chokes on air. Lexa’s ears are definitely tinged with red as she coughs and subdues her racing heart.

They turn around to see an elderly couple, bundled in thick sweaters and puffy coats. Clutching a vast array of different foods between them (is that a pack of ham in the husband’s arms?), they look ready to buckle down for the evening. Yet, clearly, Clarke and Lexa’s relationship status must be the most entertaining thing the couple have seen the whole day, with the way both of them are blinking at the two women. They look so _enchanted_ by the idea; the lawyer doesn’t want to disappoint them.

Lexa completely forgets how to speak.

(Fuck.)

Thankfully, her best friend comes to her senses before she does, and Clarke laughs amicably. The sound of her laugh brings Lexa round to clarity. “Oh, no, we’re just best friends,” the blonde assures the couple. “The children thing isn’t…. anything.”

Is this awkward? She looks at Clarke’s pale face, the look of thunder from the husband. Yes, this is very, very awkward.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dears; I just assumed,” the woman apologises profusely. She looks as if she’s been told her cat’s died. “It must be a wonderful friendship you have.”

Lexa nods, the poster child of ease. “Yes, it really is.” At Clarke’s visible discomfort, the lawyer adds, “We’re just very close friends.”

Her eyes have travelled to the husband; as she speaks, she feels herself being cornered by his stare. He very pointedly guides his vision to the women’s closeness: their arms are wrapped around each other; and Clarke leans into Lexa, a comforting habit she has done all her life. He is clearly extremely sceptical about the whole ordeal.

The brunette has sufficient defence against such a withering look, of course she does – though she can’t help but agree with the message he seems to be conveying. Not good enough. She needs to do more.

(Yeah, she feels that _acutely._ )

“Just friends, my ass,” he grumbles. As Clarke and Lexa blanch in surprise, he seems to regain his usual self. “Well, I hope you gals have a good Christmas stuck in here. Time to go, Dorothy?”

“Oh, yes. Merry Christmas, ladies.” With a polite smile, the couple turn around and shuffle away, leaving the two women to just… stare after them.

So awkward.

After a few seconds of necessary compartmentalisation, Clarke clears her throat and paints on her smile. Lexa can see right through it – it’s not 100% genuine, she’s still bowled over by the man’s comment – but it _does_ help calm the tide of her own internal screaming. Somewhat.

Outside, through the insulted glass pane windows, the snow seems to be falling in slow motion; not as harsh, not as damning. Like a reward.

“Back to the room?” the blonde questions.

If the lawyer’s nod is a little too eager, she doesn’t comment on it. They waltz their way through the congregation of guests and make their way to their room, conversation light and easy as if the interaction with the couple had never happened.

As they reach their floor, Lexa’s phone buzzes angrily. It’s been buzzing on-and-off all day, what with the various group chats she’s unwillingly joined, but this is far more persistent. She knows exactly who’s calling – because no one else, not even her own siblings, actually call her. She’s always the one to summon people through the power of the phone call.

Except for one person.

_“Hello, Alexandria. Did the thought of informing your parents of your whereabouts ever deign to cross your mind?”_

Ah, Indra. Lexa loves her mother, she truly does, but Indra is the founder of the legendary Woods’ glare and she still puts the fear of God in her children.

“Hello to you, Indra. Merry Christmas?” she tries. She sounds exactly as confident as she feels. Did Indra really not get the memo?

“Oh, is that Indra?” Clarke questions, as excitable as usual, to which Lexa nods. Clarke has a lot of love for Lexa’s family, though the brunette is not exactly certain why.

 _“Alexandria, your sister thought to contact me before you did. Your_ sister _, Alexandria. I hardly call this an appropriate time for merriment and well-wishing.”_

Lexa winces. Indra always sounds ten times angrier than she actually is, but still. Rejecting a “Merry Christmas” is harsh.

“I thought I sent a text to Gustus.” It’s a weak defence, but she’s carried arguments through with weaker foundations before.

_“That is not good enough. Perhaps your captivation with your temporary love nest caused you to forget—”_

“Indra!” Lexa yelps.

 _“—but there is only one thing your father is worse at than seriousness, and that is technology,”_ Indra continues, unashamed, as if Lexa hadn’t spoken at all. At least it’s a sign that Indra’s not _quite_ as pissed as Lexa originally thought. _“We have not been able to see your text because your father’s phone is currently being repaired.”_

“Again?” Lexa whines. “I thought it was safe to text, seeing as Gustus just had his phone repaired.”

 _“If there is anything I have learned in my marriage, it is never to underestimate the man’s ability to break things,”_ Indra chuckles. _“We had to learn of your whereabouts through your sister, instead. I hope this a one-off occasion, Alexandria.”_

“I assure you, it will be.”

_“Good. So? Are you and Clarke settled? In your love nest?”_

“For the thousandth time, Indra, it’s not—”

_“Of course it is; it’s right in front of your eyes. Who do you take me for? Anyway, I assume you won’t be free until Christmas Day if Anya’s updates are to be taken seriously. We will set food aside for you, but we do not expect you to be there for the full day. Come home whenever you are available.”_

Honestly, Lexa’s not quite sure how to answer that barrage of information. It’s just like Indra to challenge her in every way. “We – I will.”

They’ve reached the hotel room now: Clarke unlocks the door and turns to Lexa as the blonde walks backwards into the room. “Can I speak to her? I wanna wish her a happy Christmas.” It’s a surprising move, but the lawyer will take it.

The blonde holds her hand out expectantly – and it’s so like the artist, to anticipate having her wish granted on a matter like this. Her dazzling smile when Lexa accepts makes it all worth it.

“Clarke’s here; she wants to say hi.” The brunette can’t keep the smile out of her voice.

_“Fabulous. One of my favourite daughter-in-laws.”_

The lawyer rolls her eyes and passes the phone to her best friend, a blush tinging the tops of her ears Christmas red.

Indra’s easiness around Clarke is a surprising development – especially Lexa’s mother has not always been keen on the blonde. The lawyer supposes it’s Clarke’s age, and maturity, that has made Indra really grow to love her. Clarke, too, has lost the nervousness that once characterised her conversations with Lexa’s mother. It is a wholly reassuring sight.

Lexa takes the food out of Clarke’s arms and sets them down on the dinner table before settling herself down. She deftly unties her boots and reaches for the bed, her mind going at a hundred miles an hour. (She snorts to herself about Indra’s choice a few times – a _love nest_ , as if.) Then she just sits, hands spread out on the duvet behind her, watching the interaction between two of her loved ones.

The blonde chats her way through a packed five minute conversation, laughing at Indra’s dry humour and reassuring the matriarch that she’ll take care of her Lexa just fine. She looks so at ease, so in her element, slotting herself into Lexa’s life as much as she does. Joining the lawyer on the bed, her legs swinging over the side, Clarke looks like she could be her 16-year-old self or her 25-year-old self. Lexa knows, no matter what age her best friend is, she’d want to have moments like these forever.

As the artist informs Indra that the snow is, in fact, slowing down, it hits Lexa that she wants to make sure this _does_ last forever – in the way she wants it. Clarke as Indra’s actual daughter-in-law, situated on a double bed she shares with the lawyer like this is normal. Lexa _wants this._ Lexa _can’t have_ this.

Her enchantment with the whole scene in front of her must show on her face (why must she melt in front of Clarke like this?), because the blonde notices. She _notices._ She holds Lexa’s gaze, quietens for just a moment, before bouncing back into saying her goodbyes to Indra, and Lexa is fully aware that she _notices._ Off in the distance, a car alarm starts squealing.

She’s done with the phone call, so the artist throws the phone at the brunette, throws off her coat, and snuggles up to her best friend. Lexa, for her part, is trying her best to close everything down on her phone before the group chats spring up again, though for now the messages are much less frequent. She just doesn’t want Clarke to see anything, not at all.

“Your family is like a second family to me, you know that?” Clarke smiles, burrowing her nose into Lexa’s shoulder. It is, in the blonde’s own drunken words, her “favourite place in the whole world”. “I know I’m close to the Blakes, but the Woods are a special clan, I think.”

Lexa can feel her best friend’s grin on her collarbone, even through the various layers she’s wearing. “That’s reassuring.”

Clarke chuckles. “True, though. If I had to list all the places I call home, Indra and Gustus’ home is fourth. First it’s my apartment, then yours, then my mom’s house. Then theirs.”

The lawyer frowns. “Why is my apartment before your mom’s house? That’s your childhood home, Clarke.”

At this, the other woman sits up and turns her back to take off her shoes. Lexa immediately misses the contact. “Lex, I’m in my apartment for half of my time and then in yours for the other half. Of course it’s like a home to me,” she explains. Then she shrugs, faux-nonchalantly. “Besides, with Jake gone, Abby’s home isn’t so welcoming anymore.”

And there it is – it makes sense now. Indra must have been a buffer. Yet it’s a conversation that needs to happen, they both know; it _is_ keeping with tradition, after all.

“He’d want you to visit Abby as much as possible, wouldn’t he?” Lexa asks. She’s not entirely keen on this conversation either; it’s hard for her, too. Nothing like Clarke, of course – but still, Jake was a prominent figure in her life.

Though, maybe it would do them both some good. “Yeah, I think so,” Clarke agrees. “But it’s hard.” Her shoes are off; she returns to watch Lexa, but stretches out on the bed belly down, her legs coming up behind her. “I also think he’d miss us visiting his grave today. I – I just want to go see him. It’s shit, Lex.”

Lexa nods, turning around to face her best friend. She’s been with Clarke plenty of times, and she understands her best friend’s desire to visit, on today of all days. Once again, she laments nature, forces she can’t control. “I imagine he understands why you can’t see him today. He’s always been lenient.”

The blonde snorts. “Thank God. Imagine if he’d been like Abby.”

“Clarke, please. I’d much prefer not to.”

It gets Clarke chuckling, though it’s subdued. “Why don’t we talk about him instead? It’s what we can do, given the limitations we face. You wouldn’t be abandoning your dad, and you’d be keeping to your traditions. It’s the best we’ve got.”

The artist looks up at Lexa, all doe-eyed and vulnerable. It gets her heart racing. That’s as much of a yes as she’s likely to get, so the lawyer starts the memories off, detailing the time Jake caught her trying to get into the Griffins’ house to see Clarke. It’s not long until Clarke provides memories of her own – mostly Christmas related – and she gravitates closer and closer to the brunette. It’s her own special type of thanks.

Clarke works this way: touches and looks, instead of big words. She’s more subtle, but just as loving. _So_ loving.

She knows, and she says it: Jake would be so proud.

Before she can stop herself, images she wants to stop fill her head completely: Jake giving Lexa his blessing, Jake walking Clarke down the aisle. Jake holding his grandchildren for the first time. By this time, Clarke is happily cuddling with Lexa, her energy expended for now after that emotionally-draining conversation. This means the blonde will not detect the lawyer’s little groan at the thoughts, tinged with sadness and self-deprecation as it is.

She needs to stop. She’s such a gay disaster.

 

 

She’d like to expand on her previous statement: Lexa is a gay disaster, yes, but at least she is not a _games_ disaster. Not like Clarke. Clarke is awful at Monopoly and Lexa knows it.

And, yes. They did, indeed, pack a board game for their holiday with their friends. Games night is a tradition they all hate to love.

(“Are you seriously considering packing Monopoly into your suitcase?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a board game. In your suitcase.”

“You’re bringing a pack of unopened candles just to use for yourself. Don’t tell me off for bringing something useful.”)

It’s strange; Clarke is clever. She’s intuitive, sometimes manipulative. She _excelled_ in the Great Hotel War of Eighth Grade; she could be a keen war strategist if she tried. Yet Monopoly flummoxes her. The tactics she uses just _do not work_ on Lexa, and it frustrates the blonde to the point of cheating out of desperation.

Truly, there’s only one thing that beats Clarke’s enthusiasm for Christmas, and it’s her competitiveness. Lexa is extremely sorry for anyone who had to witness a Christmassy, competitive Clarke playing Monopoly before her. (She sends most of this sympathy to Abby. Poor woman.)

“Clarke, you cannot _ignore_ the hotel on my property.”

 “Please don’t claim the prisoners staged a riot so you can get out of jail free.”

 “You already collected $200 when you passed Go, or did you conveniently forget?”

“You _can_ read; don’t lie.”

Competitive Clarke also makes for a faux-grumpy Clarke, a fact Lexa is less than delighted to be reminded of.

“I wish Octavia were here so she could lose as badly as she did yesterday. Then I wouldn’t look so bad.”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

“Lexa, you have no idea what she’s put me through on our games nights.”

“Of course I have; I was there.”

“Then you should be empathising with me!”

“Empathy does not mean I will let you cheat.”

“You’re no fun.”

That is certainly not the end of it – the age-old cheat, stealing money from the bank, makes itself known in Clarke’s last-ditch attempt to save herself from going bankrupt and losing the game. Lexa is conveniently distracted with Anya’s goading texts about Indra (it is a tender, supportive love the two sisters share), so the blonde darts her hand out to grab some of the fake money.

But the lawyer is no fool – she knows her best friend too well to let herself be taken as one. As Clarke lunges, so does she; her hand reaches the bank before the artist’s does, and she blocks the attempt with ease. Eyes pinning Clarke to the spot, Lexa sends a smirk her way, expecting the artist to withdraw her hand without shame but properly chastised.

And it’s true: there’s no shame in Clarke’s eyes – there never is in these sort of situations. But the blonde does not withdraw her hand. Offering a smile herself, she instead links her fingers with Lexa’s and gives a cocky shrug, before turning her attention back to the board game.

She tries not to make it a thing

But it’s definitely a thing.

She’s held Clarke’s hand before, many times, but it definitely feels like a thing. A new thing.

Clarke _does_ give up the game – eventually. She does not give up Lexa’s hand, though, something the brunette is _acutely_ aware of and _acutely_ ecstatic about it. She’ll just attribute her enthusiasm to Christmas cheer, if Clarke asks.

(It’s a lie if ever she’s heard one.)

What with playing games being a memorable tradition for Clarke, they pack away Monopoly and eat their dinner of sandwiches and (half-begrudgingly) fruit, before moving onto Charades. For this, they both download an app onto their phones – already installed, thanks to previous game nights – and both know their strongest sections they can excel at.

Unfortunately, they’re pretty apart in their tastes as people: for example, Lexa is hopeless at popular music and Disney characters – Clarke’s default sections – but Clarke always fails at the musicals, which Lexa adores.

(“You’re too refined,” Clarke once groaned. “You’re not contemporary enough.”)

Fortunately, they find a happy medium in TV shows. It’s their go-to section. But that’s not the problem now: the problem arises when choosing whose phone to use for the game. Neither girl is happy to offer their phone up.

Lexa has plenty of reason – the group chats are active again. Raven is rabbiting on about what Christmas song Lexa would use to serenade Clarke with, and Jasper has got himself in an argument with Octavia over it. If Clarke sees the notification that pops up, then the cat will be out of the bag; she’ll have questions that Lexa won’t want to answer.

(She can’t imagine how embarrassing that conversation would be. “So, you’re in a group chat discussing how best to ask me out? How’s that going for you?” _God._ )

Clarke’s hesitation, she can’t understand. She’s usually not reluctant like this. She must be avoiding something, or hiding something – but Lexa, for the life of her, cannot understand what the blonde would be hiding.

This is a train of thought that _does_ take place in Lexa’s head, but it’s not her number one priority; no, her mind seems anxious to replay the image of Clarke biting her lip first and foremost.

She’s got her priorities sorted. Clearly.

Still, Clarke has to relinquish her phone – she can afford to lose some of her battery, more so than Lexa – so they play on there.

Wells’ term, ‘best friend intuition’, comes in handy here. God help anyone else who wants to play charades with the two of them: simple information flies out of the window as their explanations are mostly communicated with specific looks, memories and inside jokes. It’s almost another language entirely; it’s just as cool as the _Trigedasleng_ Lexa created with her siblings once. Of course, Clarke’s inhibitions melt away completely, and the frozen world outside pauses its barrage of snow to watch in wonder at these two girls.

These two girls, more suited for another than they want to let on.

The games let the hours pass by. The Sun, already shielded by clouds, has long set, and they’ve barely noticed anything else in their immersion with each other. So when Lexa checks the time on Clarke’s phone, she’s surprised to find the hour so late.

And then she nearly drops the phone.

Not because of the time – no. No, her world has – once again – been turned upside down by Clarke Griffin.

At the top of the screen, a notification has come up from a group chat:

**mission chrimpossible: help griffin get her gal:**

**_reyesoflight said:_ ** _clarke you’re so whipped for her you have like 300 secret paintings of lex in your apartment, you’re prob having a heart attack…_

(Cruel, beautiful irony.)

Lexa’s heart is pounding. She doesn’t know how to react. She doesn’t know what to do, how to act, how to _think_. Her hands are starting, ever just slightly, to shake under the full weight of the situation.

She has so many questions.

Clarke is in a similar group chat? Are the rest of their friendship group in that group chat?

Clarke _paints_ her? _Her?_ Why? How many?

And, perhaps most importantly – _Raven thinks Clarke is whipped?_

(Ah, fuck, she thinks, swallowing. Fuck. She’s not equipped to deal with this.)

“Lex?” Clarke’s voice lures her out of the panic-induced haze she finds herself in. The lawyer blinks up to find a slightly concerned blonde staring back at her.

“Oh. Sorry,” she mumbles. “Here.” She thrusts the phone towards her best friend and jumps up. “It’s late. I think we should call it a night. Do you want me to use the bathroom first?”

“Sure,” is Clarke’s reply, and Lexa nods, mostly to herself.

She’s already bustling about, fetching her pyjamas from the closet compartment and busying herself with her toiletries. The artist seems too occupied with her phone to notice Lexa being so jumpy, and the brunette notices out of the corner of her eye that Clarke’s eyes are as wide as saucers. She doesn’t miss Clarke’s soft, “Oh, shit,” either.

Lexa knows, then. Clarke knows Lexa saw the notification. It was something she was not meant to see. Clarke knows.

What ensues is nothing less than awkward as both girls try to wrap their heads around what they’ve seen, and what they know. Lexa comes back from the restroom to settle herself in bed – in the _bed they’re sharing_ , she recalls with dread – and Clarke is gone again, whistling off to take Lexa’s place in the restroom like a hurricane. The lawyer’s not even sure she sees Clarke stand still for one second.

She supposes it’s fine. She has her own questions to answer.

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Raven, have you made a separate group chat called “Mission Chrimpossible: Help Griffin Get Her Gal”, in which you try to get Clarke to date me? Answer me._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Raven, answer me NOW._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _holy fucking shit._

She frowns. This is a private message to Raven. How is her nickname still ‘commanderhearteyes’? And how is Octavia replying to—?

Oh, no.

She groans. Extremely loudly. She sent it to her own group chat.

**mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid**

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _shit, you saw that??? what message did you see? DETAILS, LEXA_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _oh my fucking god this is amazing_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _How did you even find that, lexa??_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _did griff not turn her notifications off? why were you on your phone? oh my god this is the best thing ever_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _christ, i bet clarke wasn’t happy about that._

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _[eyes emoji]_

**_jasperjaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _get the popcorn @ monty_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _already got it jas. this is gonna be legendary_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Does Clarke secretly paint pictures of me?_

**_jasperjaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _AWW_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _AW_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _To answer the married couple – we were playing Charades. I had Clarke’s phone at the time. It came up as a notification._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _AWWW_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _aww_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _AW_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _#whipped_

**_orpheusblake: t_ ** _hey’re amazing pictures, lexa. you’d be so proud of them_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _is this good enough evidence that clarke loves you now?? because we’ve been saying this for months_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _no, YEARS_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _this BETTER be enough evidence to get your ass into bed w her because god you kids are exhausting_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Raven, I am literally older than you._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I… may. Say something. I don’t know._

Clarke returns, padding into the main hotel room quietly – Lexa jumps out of her skin when she realises her best friend has finished in the restroom and is quietly putting her things away. But Clarke is humming, too; like clockwork, the lawyer’s bones resettle and she sinks further into the cold sheets, the smooth sheets, locking her phone and putting it away for good.

Smooth sheets she is about to share with the love of her life. Not a big deal.

She has to count to three, just to compose herself, when Clarke finally blows out the candles and joins her. The blonde is still shivering with cold, even under the covers, and her pyjamas – though irresistibly cute to Lexa – do little to lock in any warmth. Lexa is left with no choice but to huddle close to her best friend, and hope against hope that her pounding heart is not as deafening to Clarke as it is to her.

“Did you—” Lexa clears her throat, and tries again. “Have you enjoyed Christmas Eve?”

The artist’s nod is hesitant – then, confident. She seems to regain herself.

So close to the brunette, a hair’s width in between their noses. The snow’s stopped falling, and all Lexa can hear is their breaths, slow and mingling.

Those blue eyes, shaded by night as they are, are Lexa’s kryptonite.

“Definitely.” Clarke does sound confident now. It’s reassuring. “Have you?”

Well. The lawyer automatically nods – and it’s not a lie, but it’s not entirely the truth, either. She’s sure her nerves will need a break after the high levels of stress she’s endured today. “As much as I can when stuck in a hotel room.”

Clarke giggles. “Great. I’m glad. This is what Christmas should be like, Lex. Chaotic and unorthodox and traditional and personal and… good. Just, good. It’s been good.”

The artist is so, so close. Lexa feels the golden hairs tickle her neck, her collarbone. She feels like screaming.

(She’s felt like screaming for most of the day, if she’s honest. It might actually happen. She’ll look weird as hell, but it’s likely to happen.)

“I’m happy we achieved that, Clarke. I hope this Christmas continues to make you satisfied.”

 _Satisfied?_ Of all the words to choose, she chose _that_ one? She winces internally.

“Any Christmas with you would satisfy me, Lex. No takebacks.” Clarke yawns. It’s the most adorable thing. “Anyway. Santa won’t come if we don’t sleep.”

“Clarke, I don’t think Santa’s going to be visiting the hotel any time soo—”

“ _Shhhh_ , Lexa. Sleep.” A pause. “Goodnight, Lexa.”

Lexa chuckles. “Sleep well, Clarke.”

The blonde burrows further into her best friend, places herself closer to Lexa’s heart, and the lawyer has a hard time calming herself down and accepting it. They’ve snuggled before, always – but this is different. This comfort that Lexa takes in Clarke is different, and now she’s discovered Clarke actually might feel the same way… it all feels very familiar, and very new.

She’s quite stiff. Even as Clarke wraps herself around the lawyer, she’s stiff, terrified of doing the wrong thing, terrified of upsetting the shaky balance they’ve suddenly found themselves on.

Clarke must know. She _always_ knows.

“Lex… be with me tonight. Please. Don’t think of me differently. I just want to sleep.”

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat.

It’s desperate – clogged with sleep, but desperate. The brunette can’t find any resistance, not that she’d want to anyway.

(Who’s she kidding? As if it could make Lexa think of Clarke differently. The vulnerability there is unfounded.)

 “Of course,” she promises.

It promises a conversation in the morning, a change of tempo they’ve both acknowledged. But now, they have to settle for sleep. Now, they have to wrap themselves around each other, and hope it won’t make things worse.

It’s going to severely impact Lexa’s sleeping schedule, that’s for sure. She’s still wide awake and listening to people shovel snow outside from the parking lot. Her heart is still pounding and her arms are curled protectively around Clarke.

Lexa is anxious over the love of her life, and the love of her life is dead to the world.

Lucky.

At least, in her anxiety-riddled consciousness, she decides on one thing: Clarke, more than anything, deserves a brilliant Christmas. Even if they don’t work things out in the morning, Lexa will stop at nothing to make sure tomorrow is the best Christmas day Clarke can hope for.


	2. christmas day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took... longer than expected. Whoops. It also ran away with me. But I tried to make sure it was quality over quantity.  
> Anyway, here it is: the last instalment of our favourite sapphics being soppy. Enjoy!

There’s a beeping disturbing her, and something prodding her shoulder. And her collarbone. And her neck. And her cheek.

The weight on her cheek is much softer. Lexa makes a sleepy noise and leans further into it, just teetering into consciousness. She’s not awake enough to recognise – well, anything.

Then the prodding returns.  The beeping intensifies, and then is stopped by an unknown force, and the haze of sleep starts to disappear for good.

She frowns, and harrumphs. Maybe she should open her eyes. She finds nothing but controlled, but conscious breathing, and a silhouette of someone next to her, leaning on one elbow. One arm still remains wrapped around Lexa, warmth forbidding her from moving. (She’s not complaining.)

(Do you know what else would be good right now? Going back to sleep. Catching up on all the sleep she’s lost. She simply cannot deal with the day right now.)

“Clarke?” Her mouth is dry with the vestiges of sleep still taking hold of her, and Clarke’s name comes out all growly. The lawyer clears her throat and squints up at her best friend.

“Merry Christmas!” the blonde squeals. Hampered by her slumber, Clarke’s voice sounds different, and it makes Lexa’s toes curl.

Wha— oh. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas Day.

Oh.

“What time is it?”

“It’s just gone 6 in the morning. Like always. I’ve already sent my other messages off to everyone. I woke you last; I thought you might appreciate that.” A pause. “How much did you sleep? Usually you’re up and enthusiastic at this time.”

The brunette sighs. It’s 6 already? She swears it was 2am two hours ago. Physically impossible, but her sleep-deprived body is demanding of such things. She harrumphs again and digs her head further into the pillow. All she wants to do is catch up on all the sleep she’s lost to overthinking. “I didn’t sleep too well. Like the majority of humanity, I am not always a robot.” She yawns. “I promise you, Christmas will still be here if you stay in bed for a few more hours. Go back to sleep, Clarke.”

“You’re no fun.” Clarke flops down to the pillow and resumes her previous position nonetheless.

“I’m plenty of fun. Just not when I’m sleep-deprived,” she counters. Through another yawn – one Clarke picks it up immediately afterwards – she decides to tone down her early morning grumpiness. “And. Merry Christmas, Clarke. I’ll be good this Christmas, I just need some more shut-eye first.”

“ _This_ Christmas?” the blonde grins. She can’t see it, but Lexa can imagine the tongue poking out between her teeth. “I should’ve known, you’re a bad girl usually, _Commander._ ”

Lexa groans at the teasing. She’ll never live down that story of that drunken one-night stand. Clarke would never allow it. “Go to sleep, Griffin.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lexa can hear the artist’s giggling, still. But it dies down after a few minutes, and – like clockwork – Clarke’s breathing evens out. The blonde has always had the ability to fall asleep anywhere, at almost the drop of a hat, and her best friend has always envied her for it.

In this case, it means Lexa is _once again_ alone to ponder how she’s going to navigate the day’s upcoming events.

She’s lost a significant amount of sleep over this girl tonight, and all of this – the sharing of the bed, the clear pining from her side, the awkward group chats – it’s only happened because of a _fucking snowstorm._ A snowstorm, apparently, that passed over them last night: it stopped snowing when they went to bed, and it hasn’t resumed since.

That provides one benefit: they may actually be going home today. That’s a relief. She’s looking forward to getting some proper sleep again.

Lexa is known to be a woman with a mission. She has a focused mind, clear from peripheral worries and distractions. As with everything, that all falls away when a night spent with Clarke is on the cards. Clarke _is_ the focus; Clarke _is_ the worry; Clarke _is_ the distraction. She is everything, and Lexa is left to deal with that fact.

She’s been left to deal with that fact throughout this whole friends’ holiday. They shared a room; they shared a restroom; they were paired up with each other for everything. And this doesn’t usually concern her – no, she _enjoyed_ and stills enjoys being in Clarke’s presence – but it is becoming more and more unbearable to have her so close and so unavailable.

She has to say something. She has to _acknowledge_ it. Out loud. There is, without a doubt, something between them. There has to be confession of developed feelings somewhere, somehow, sometime.

Why would Raven tease Clarke about her secret paintings otherwise? Raven is a lovable asshole, true, but Bellamy, sweet, straight-talking _Bellamy_ attested to their existence. And their excellence.

Her brain short-circuits as she once again realises that Clarke _painted_ her. _Her._ Lexa. She looked at Lexa and decided that she had enough creativity and emotion to produce not just one drawing, but _multiple paintings._ God dammit, she wants to see these, touch them, feel herself come to life with every stroke of the paintbrush and every nervous flicker of Clarke’s anticipating eyes.

Lexa’s got to talk about it with Clarke.

It has just become a strategy game, of who will say something first.

(Like a sunflower, hiding from the light.)

Thus, the day’s main problem arises: _when_ , exactly, does Lexa bring up this conversation? In the morning, to get it out of the way? What if it ruins Clarke’s Christmas if it goes wrong? Does she approach the topic at the end of their time together, so Lexa can duck and run if it all goes wrong? Would that be wasting time? What even _is_ their plan for the day, anyway?

Or, does she let her best friend lead them into it? It was _her_ message from Raven that Lexa saw, after all.

(She’d like to reiterate this: _Clarke painted her._ She’s never going to get over it.)

In the name of all that is good and gay, what the hell does she _do?_

From beside her, Clarke scrunches her nose up in her sleep. Not for the first time in these past few hours, the lawyer wonders what the blonde could possibly be dreaming about. Something peaceful, hopefully. Something very much not to do with a best friend who also doubles as a gay, pining disaster.

(Actually, it would be nice to know if Clarke dreamt about her. But that’s too soppy to deal with right now. Besides, she’s wilfully digressing and that’s just not acceptable.)

Admittedly, deciding that she _will_ get to the bottom of this shaky non-relationship relationship with her best friend, no matter how delayed the conversation will be, is the most progress she’s made since she realised the true depth of her feelings for Clarke. It’s the opposite of what Lexa would normally do. She’s survived in a corporate world and battled hard to come out on top: phrases such as ‘love is weakness’ are passed around her work environment and are often shown to be useful. (Her mother’s assistant, Titus, may be an unfeeling monster, but he’s damn good at his job.) Her coping method of locking her feelings away, therefore, has become her default, and she very much feels out of her comfort zone due to this latest development.

But it’s progress, isn’t it? She’s moving away from the “human-shaped stone” persona that seems to have leaked into her private life. Providing it all works out with Clarke, of course.

(“Human-shaped stone” was a phrase lovingly provided by her ex, the almost always delightful Costia, during the only fight they ever had. It was horribly bitter and, needless to say, that relationship did not last for much longer. It did not last past the next sentence.

Lexa’s feelings for Clarke may have had something to do with it.)

So. If this is progress, maybe she can afford to stay a little lax for a little longer. This has already exhausted her.

Despite its weight, it’s not even Lexa’s main reason for her hesitation. As Lexa has repeatedly demanded of herself throughout this entire night and morning, Christmas only comes once a year. She can see Clarke at any time, speak to her at any time. She can do this _tomorrow_ , if need be, when she is safely tucked away at her parents’ house and spared the expressions on Clarke’s face as they crash and burn their way through a conversation. It doesn’t need to be now. She doesn’t need to put all the pressure on them now.

Lexa will wait. She’ll wait for Clarke.

 _Okay, this has gone from thoughtful and dived headfirst into soppy._ Lexa huffs to herself and tightens her hold on Clarke. _Time to sleep._ The soothing motions of her hand on Clarke’s bare, but warm, shoulder are automatic and scrutinised. Just as they have been for years now.

It takes her around half an hour, random thoughts of blooming flowers, candlelight and legal phrases floating to the forefront of her sleep-hazy mind, but eventually Lexa drifts off. It must be the fourth or fifth time, but finally – finally – she falls asleep again.

She’s dreaming, and it is all to do with a best friend who – much to her surprise last night – doubles as a bisexual, pining disaster.

 

 

Lexa remembers why she never sleeps in. She feels like death. She probably looks like death. She hates everything.

(All she needs right now is the cloak that, on a couple of Hallowe’en nights, has transformed her into a satisfyingly intimidating Grim Reaper. She’s 80% certain she is still in possession of it. At the very least, Raven will have kept it, on grounds of how “fucking awesome this shit is.”

She’s always preferred going as a warrior queen for Hallowe’en, however. It’s a much more realistic reflection of her nature, dramatic war paint and all.)

Ever the opposite of the brunette, Clarke has jumped out of bed to fetch her Santa hat. True to form, she has the _hugest_ grin stretched right across her face, and in between sounds of contentment, a Christmas melody vibrates from her lips. (Stop _looking at her lips, Lexa_.) It carries through the air as she yanks backs the curtains to display the still, white world outside.

The light is so bright, the air so cold, that the lawyer growls and pulls the duvet up to her nose.

Then the blonde whips around to look at Lexa. The lawyer glares back. It doesn’t faze Clarke in the _slightest._

“Good morning! Merry Christmas!” she squeals.

“Merry Christmas.” The lawyer struggles to keep the groan out of her voice. “What’s the time?”

“10am. I’m keeping to my schedule, you know. Are you excited for your presents? Do you want to open them now or have breakfast first?”

Lexa sighs to herself, looks away from the ball of sunshine carrying all the energy in the world, and closes the blinds on the world. But her stomach growls at the promise of food. “Breakfast, please.” She frowns. “What do _you_ usually do? You’re the one who likes Christmas, after all.”

“We do presents first. But you look like you need something to wake you up, so food it is,” Clarke grins. She clearly knows the other woman doesn’t have the energy to chastise her for that comment. Lexa’s eyes aren’t even open, for crying out loud. “What do you want for breakfast: sandwiches, mushy pears, or pastries?”

Lexa yawns as she buries her cheek further into the soft expanse of the pillow. It’s a no-brainer. She turns her head towards Clarke and squints with one eye open at the blonde. “Pastries, please. And napkins too?”

Clarke’s at the bed in an instant, delicately placing the pastries down. They sit on the end of the duvet, supported by napkins and far away enough to be safe from squashing. Then, before Lexa can do anything other than crank her other eye open, the blonde is on her, tackling her into a hug that makes the lawyer laugh despite herself. In her sleep-addled state, she decides that this is the perfect opportunity to burrow herself into Clarke further, to grab her and refuse to let her go. They fail to move for at least five minutes, content in their embrace.

(Oh, let her be. She’s sleepy, and the blonde provides ample comfort.)

In reality, the hug lasts less than five minutes – an anomaly of perception, as previously noted, but it feels like five minutes and Lexa would happily conform to this warped way of measuring time if it meant she could hug Clarke like this forever.

(Hm. Time-bending. Might be a prosperous investment. She’ll have to talk to Titus about it.)

She does not miss the little hitch in Clarke’s breath – and her heart rate jumps accordingly.

“Okay, as much I love hugging you, we can’t eat and hug at the same time. Also, you’re not allowed to fall asleep on me.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Are you really denying yourself food, Lex?”

For once, the artist is the first to let go, but this does not put Lexa out. Comfy as she is, she is awake enough to understand that Clarke is only abandoning her because of the food.

Awake enough, but only just. That’s becoming more and debatable by the second.

(And definitely not awake enough to realise Clarke had disproven her indignant response immediately after the words left the lawyer’s lips. It certainly accounts for her smug smile.)

“Open your eyes, Lexa. And say _ahh_.”

Utterly perplexed, the lawyer opens the mentioned orifices to see the glorious sight of her best friend, surrounded by pastries, holding a croissant close to the brunette’s mouth. Not only is a doting Clarke an intensely adorable sight (the sight of Clarke’s amusement, an eyebrow arched and her lips pressed tight, is not a bad one either), but Lexa is never one to deny herself desperately needed nutrition: she sits up, leans forward, and bites down on the pastry.

(It occurs to her, in the energised part of her brain, that this has been a far more intimate affair than a Christmas breakfast with her best friend should be. The blonde must recognise this, too, because her cheeks have started to warm.

Lexa will never forget the sight of that, as long as she shall live.)

“Feeling better?” Clarke asks, her evident entertainment failing to be hidden.

She makes sure to swallow her mouthful before speaking; as her mother likes to remind her, she wasn’t born in a barn. She was raised to be polite. (She thinks that's an English saying. She’s not quite sure. Either Indra picked that up from a business trip, or Gustus brought it into the family on account of his eccentric nature.)

“Astoundingly,” Lexa nods. She’s finally starting to wake up. She’s finally feeling human again. It’s a good feeling.

“Good, we’ve got plenty to do today!” The blonde takes a bite of her _pain au chocolat_ and they eat in peace for a few seconds. Then Clarke adds, “I’ve never seen you so needy. It was _adorable._ For a morning person, you are the _worst_ at waking up.”

And then the brunette returns to her usual self. Now she’s feeling Christmassy, but also embarrassed. This is why she needs to not sleep next to Clarke.

“The details of my behaviour will never leave this room,” she demands seriously. She can just imagine the relentless teasing from Anya & Co should word of her “neediness” ever spread. “I’m only terrible when I don’t sleep beforehand. If I get six hours of sleep minimum, I should be fine.”

Clarke hums. “Only six hours? In that case, I should keep you up at night more.”

Lexa chokes on her croissant.

(Death by croissant. A somewhat cosmopolitan-chic death, triggered by a gorgeous, unintentionally( _??_ ) flirty blonde. She’ll take it.)

The artist, red cheeks ablaze, thumps the brunette on the back graciously, waiting for the newest embarrassing moment for the lawyer to pass. Lexa wheezes out a thank you and inhales the pastry-scented air as she begins breathing with a new-found sense of appreciation.

“I’m not sure that would be a wise approach. My boss would kill me. Do you want me to be unemployed?”

The blonde snorts. “Oh, please, you know Indra would relax her hackles as soon as I told her it was because of me.”

The meanings of this conversation are so blurry that Lexa is having trouble focusing. Is Clarke even aware of what she’s saying?

But she blushed when Lexa nearly choked to death. _Surely_ she must know? Or is she pointedly ignoring the highly unsubtle implications? Is Lexa overthinking this whole thing? There are just too many questions to tackle at this unfortunate time in the morning.

“Time and Indra wait for no man,” the lawyer quips, and it makes Clarke giggle through her pastry.

With a tilt of her head and an innocent shrug, the blonde concedes; the sharp movement is enough to dislodge the Santa hat on her head, and it falls onto the duvet. Lexa, having finished her croissant, scoops it up and places it on her best friend’s head before snagging a _pain au chocolat_ for herself.

Clarke’s grateful look is nigh on adoring – and, no, Lexa is not blowing her own trumpet there. The artist’s eyes are almost as big as saucers. Hyperbolic similes aside, it does funny things to her heartbeat and the lawyer is one bad decision away from saying _fuck it_ to hesitation and kissing the hell out of her best friend instead.

Her best friend. Who also loves Christmas just as much as life itself. Just like that, caution comes crawling back to the brunette as she reminds herself that she is meant to be putting Clarke’s needs first. Her overwhelming gayness can wait.

 

 

**mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid**

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _merry christmas to my sapphic commander_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _i hope she doesn’t see this because she’s too busy celebrating with clarke_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _if you catch my drift_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _everyone caught your drift, rae. i caught your drift, clarke caught your drift and she’s not even on this chat, the prime minister of australia caught your drift_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _merry christmas to you too bell_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _he’s just mad because he saw spoilers for the doctor who christmas special, don’t pay attention to him_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _you fuckin nerd_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _raven, you literally work for NASA_

“Who’re you texting?” Clarke wonders curiously as she drops the crumb-infested napkins into the bin. Almost immediately, she zips over to the presents bags they’ve placed under the desk, examining the gifts with a laser-sharp focus. When her phone demands her attention – the group chats, no doubt – the scowl on her face betrays impatience, not irritation. Christmas Griffin is in full force, no doubt.

“Just Raven. She’s sending her customary Christmas greetings.” Considering the type of things that come from the mechanic’s mouth, it’s not even a lie. “She’s also told me Bellamy is a nerd for liking Doctor Who.”

Now sat up and awake, Lexa has control of all the brainpower needed to deal with this version of her best friend. She’s had years of practice – being childhood best friends with someone who turns into a 5 year old at Christmas will do that to you – so she knows what to do and what to say. Luckily, it mostly consists of being swept along for the ride. As soon as she enough energy and patience to deal with it, it can turn out to be really quite fun.

The blonde lifts up her head and stares directly at Lexa. Intended to be an intense gaze purely as a reaction to Raven’s hypocrisy, it nonetheless freezes Lexa to the spot. “Raven literally works at NASA.”

Satisfied with their present stash, Clarke crawls out from under the desk and returns to the brunette’s side, giving the lawyer time to unfreeze. Clarke suspects nothing, beaming at Lexa’s newly excited grin.

(Clarke’s Christmas cheer is definitely seeping into her bones now.

That, and the fact that she can spend a lot of her time pressed to the blonde’s side.

Christmas cheer, indeed.)

“That’s exactly what Bellamy said,” the lawyer supplies as her best friend gets comfortable next to her.

“I’m psychic,” Clarke winks, and Lexa might, _might_ have just had a mini heart attack. Everything is absolutely _fine._

It’s a very particular sentence to coincidentally replicate.

(But she’s not going to quiz Clarke on that statement. She made a promise to herself – and, by extension, to Clarke. She’s also not going to grudge the blonde for winking at her; in her defence, she doesn’t _know_ the effect it has on Lexa.)

“You should put it to better use,” Lexa responds. “So – presents? I can’t imagine you’d want to delay opening them any longer.”

“A girl after my own heart,” is the blonde’s excited reply, and Lexa tries not to dwell on how utterly and unknowingly accurate Clarke is.

(It’s like this all the time. The lawyer can never catch a break.)

A disadvantage of having a quick vacation with your friends, Clarke reports, is that it drains your bank account. But the advantage is you see your friends, and you get presents. Potentially amazing presents. This is why she’s currently sporting a Cheshire Cat-esque smile while gazes at the two orderly piles of presents, one for herself and one for Lexa. It’s not a present from everyone – all of the couples of the friendship group have opted to gift joint presents, and there are more presents from relatives waiting at home for them. But Clarke can live with that.

(“Actually, that’s a pretty good idea. We should do joint presents, Lex.”

“I – yeah. Sure. Of course.”

 _Smooth, Lexa._ )

“Oh, my God, I love Monty and Jas,” the artist gasps when she tears the wrapping paper away from the boys’ gift. Mouth still open, she holds up the jacket with outstretched hands to get a glimpse of the scarlet Gryffindor design in its full glory.

The brunette knows exactly what Jasper and Monty have given her now. Lexa, for her part, groans quietly. This is going to destroy her fearsome reputation. Tear it to pieces. Set it on fire.

“I _told_ Bell you were Ravenclaw and not Slytherin,” she hears from her side.

“Both work,” the brunette shrugs as she continues uncovering her own jacket. Grey just like Clarke’s, with the blue Ravenclaw logo stamped right across the chest, with the house name printed on the back. Like a trashy high school varsity jacket. She can’t help but love it. (She’s secretly a Potterhead, but she doubts anyone of her generation could resist such a thing.) “They’re going to force us to wear this, aren’t they?”

“They won’t be the only ones; _I_ will!” Clarke insists, pushing her arms through the armholes already. “Go on, wear it. We can match.”

And, really, who is Lexa to refuse? She has to admit, it does look cute. On Clarke, especially. Definitely on Clarke. This is a moment she’d like to have permanently preserved in her memory: a snapshot of Clarke curled up with the edge of the duvet resting on her lap, her Santa hat falling down the side of her head and her hands balled up in her new jacket.

She can’t ask Clarke to stay there for a photograph, not without bringing up the sort of questions she’s actively trying to avoid. She got close enough with the joint presents suggestion. Clarke’s implication that they, the non-couple, could adopt a couple tradition, nearly broke her crumbling resolve.

So she gives in when Clarke asks for a joint photo. It’s the closest thing available.

Bellamy’s gifts are next. Notoriously better at present-giving than his sister (again, God bless Lincoln for his influence on Octavia), Lexa is actually anticipating this present without wondering if she’s ever going to use it. She’s not left disappointed: she may not have as much spare time as the average working person, but she’s sure to watch Bellamy’s present – DVDs of _The Thick Of It_. Bellamy’s never understood Lexa’s burning love for politics – British politics, especially – but he’s more than happy to provide for her somewhat unorthodox interest. As for Clarke, his present to her is more of a nudge in the right direction: he’s picked up that the artist cooks surprisingly little. (Lexa’s presence certainly never helped her to improve; Clarke allocates the menial tasks for herself or finishes off her art elsewhere, and the brunette’s used to cooking alone anyway.) Therefore, Bellamy’s present of a cookbook is the unsubtle reminder that she really needs to start cooking on her own. The blonde accepts it gracefully, gratefully, and sends the historian a thank you text. Hopefully, it’ll cheer him up.

Raven and Anya’s presents can always be counted on to lighten anyone’s mood. Notorious jokers in their own ways, and even worse as a pair, it’s understandable that Lexa is surprised when she discovers a present that doesn’t make her blush. However, it does make her roll her eyes: her present is a mug with the inscription _I like my men how I like my coffee: I don’t_ , complete with fancy chocolates wrapped up inside. The artist’s, however, is not quite as tame: her pack of _Cards Against Humanity_ will provide a great source of entertainment in the coming months. Raven and Anya must be chomping at the bit to start playing them.

“Oh my Gosh, look!” Clarke crows, holding up one part of her presents from the pair. “I think it’s a doorstop.”

True to form, it _is_ a doorstop – in the shape of a lion. It’s rather cute. However, Lexa knows exactly what her other present is: it’s barely unwrapped before she sees the thick black marking around the animals’ eyes and sighs heavily when she scoops out raccoon doorstop from the wrapping.

“That’s _adorable_ ,” the blonde coos. Lexa wishes she could agree.

A readjustment of her Santa hat, and Clarke is busy opening the next presents: this time, from Lincoln and Octavia. She’s delighted – _very_ delighted – to discover that the married couple have somehow bought Clarke’s all-time favourite book. Clarke only ever borrowed it from her university library, and it was old enough to be out of stock, so Lincoln and O must have performed some magic to find it. Lexa, having already opened her candles, also receives a bottle of her favourite brandy. She may have to start drinking it soon, just to get through the whole day.

She watches the artist’s eyes flicker over the words their friends have written in her cards. She watches how her face-splitting smiles start with a jolt of a funny memory, how those smiles blossom from the tiniest bud of laughter into a fully-bloomed grin. She watches, and swallows, and looks away. Yeah, she may have to start drinking now.

She shakes her head. Anyway. Presents.

It should be said that Wells is a sweetheart. Clarke believes it should be declared multiple times, to multiple people. The lawyer certainly agrees – had she not already be in possession of plenty of pleasant memories involving him and his agreeable nature, she would agree on merit of his Christmas presents alone. She knows at least five people who will be envious of the first edition collection of Virginia Woolf works that Wells has tracked down and gifted to Lexa.

Lexa’s half-convinced the blonde _does_ inform people of Wells’ charming nature no matter where she is. Wells has been declared the ‘cinnamon roll’ of the friendship group, alongside Monty (a term which the lawyer will never, ever understand), and, thankfully, the boy never fails to deliver.

Lexa thanks the deity she’s never believed in that such a sweet human being exists, because she _loves_ the way Clarke’s eyes widen when she opens Wells’ present. The expression on the blonde’s face is one of pure joy as she reveals the glossy sketchbook, personally inscribed with Clarke’s name on the covers and on every page inside. Aside from that, Wells has also gifted her a discount voucher for the blonde’s favourite arts and crafts shop. It’s a sure way to Clarke’s heart, and it fills Lexa with a great deal of appreciation that the artist has a best friend in this sweet, sweet man.

She can only hope her own present matches up to this great gift.

She’s not sure how it can’t – she saw Clarke staring longingly at this necklace and matching set of earrings, which spurred Lexa on to buy the set the day after, and the letter she’s certain the blonde will appreciate – but worry likes to gnaw at her insides at the most inappropriate of moments. It’s suddenly too much – too soon, too _coupley_ – but then Clarke is putting down her phone and reaching for the present Lexa deftly wrapped up for her. And there’s no going back.

“It’s definitely a football,” Clarke cracks with a smile, eyes bright blue and sunny with curiosity. Her fingers ghost over the seams, careful and caring, and Lexa falls a little more in love with her in that moment.

The brunette stamps down her anxious anticipation as she collects Clarke’s own present for her. (The artist is not the best present wrapper, but she makes up for it with big bows and plenty of enthusiasm.) She smirks back, “Damn it, Clarke, you’re too good for me.”

The blonde snorts. “As if anyone’s too good for you.” Clarke’s attention returns to the present and Lexa has to pretend that addition hasn’t just melted her.

( _Such_ a soppy gay. She needs a break.)

Lexa has absolutely no time at all to dwell on her misfortunes, because the sound of Clarke’s gasp has her attention solely in the hands of the blonde. Clarke’s mouth is open and after a few seconds, the lawyer isn’t sure the blonde remembers how to close it. Her fingers trace the outline of the infinity symbol held up either side by a delicate silver chain, then travel to the glistening earrings, the same symbol etched into the middle of each one. Afterwards, the artist’s eyes fall upon the letter the jewellery box is resting on, and the breath she’s holding is expelled in her shock. “Lexa… how…”

“I have my ways,” Lexa shrugs, suddenly aware of how unhelpful a comment that was.

Clarke’s head snaps up. “We saw this set in that shop a month ago,” she states. “And this… the letter… that was from my _first_ art show. My _first._ ”

“Correct.” The brunette swallows. It’s all _too much._ However, she doesn’t want to resemble a puddle of emotion, so she does her best to still her beating heart as Clarke’s eyes return to the letter to absorb each printed word in awe.

“I never thought I’d see this letter again. These words. In any form.”

“I am not likely to let a letter of immense importance stay missing,” Lexa responds, as if it would pain her not to explain herself. Clarke’s gaze locks onto hers. “A _renowned_ artist drops into my best friend’s first show for “something to do” and is so impressed that she writes a lengthy letter praising her – and you believe I would let an opportunity to remind you of that slip by?”

“So you found it? Months after I gave up my own search?”

“I’d typed it up. So had Octavia. And when you finally told us you’d lost it, it was close to Christmas. Everything fell into place.”

Clarke just stares at her for a few seconds. Just watches. The lawyer waits, as she’s done her whole life for this girl. The lack of response is automatic and once questioned, but now embraced.

Then the artist wraps her arms around the brunette, and Lexa’s heart is far from settling down, far from returning to its normal, steady pace – but it is so full. The words she’s been keeping in for years almost slip from her lips, but she is still so full of happiness for Clarke, this talented and humble and truly, truly great woman.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Clarke whispers into the space between her jaw and her ear, unaware of the shiver Lexa has to suppress. (Now’s not the time.) Lexa can feel the bobble of her Santa hat fall and bump against her shoulder. Then it disappears from her person as Clarke lifts her head; they let go and watch each other, swapping a grateful smile for a relieved one. “You are so damn special, Lex. Thank you.”

“You are always very, very welcome.” The warmth blossoms from deep within to bloom in her cheeks, on the tips of her ears.

The artist is silent for a second more before Christmas Clarke returns with force, the smile on her face even wider thanks to her present. “Now, your present!” she squeals. She neatly places her gifts from Lexa on the bed beside her, but keep them close. “I don’t know if it can live up to yours, but I really, _really_ hope you like it. Really.”

“Really?” Lexa parrots with a smirk. It’s ever so slightly fragile, as shoddily constructed as it is, but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice.

Instead, Lexa finds her gift being plopped into her lap for her. It’s very light – _very_ light, indeed – and the only explanation for such a lightweight present can be… paper.

“Well, get stuck in.”

Lexa does. Whereas Clarke is more inclined to rip apart the wrapping paper with the force of a thousand raging dragons, the lawyer prefers to open her presents in a far gentler manner. She hooks a thumb through an opening and pushes through, the tape eventually giving away to the pressure. The paper is pushed away, to reveal the gift folded underneath.

Clarke does not do presents by halves, especially not when giving her own artwork. And this isn’t one of her prints, no – this is a specific piece for a specific occasion, and Lexa can see the attention to detail on every object she’s painted: the wisps of hair, the ruffles on the clothes, the background scene of 18th century America. Before she can properly analyse it, however – she’s already keenly aware of the painting’s subject – a pair of tickets fall onto the duvet as the brunette opens out the artwork.

Lexa stares at them dumbly. She can read them. _Hamilton: The Musical._ Fucking Hamilton _._ These tickets are _notoriously_ expensive – and—

“I waited forever just to buy two tickets, had three screens open so I could try and get some. Thank God Bellamy knows some reliable ticket resale websites so we could get _legitimate_ tickets,” Clarke starts chatting. “I know it won’t be Lin-Manuel Miranda or anything, but I’m pretty sure you’d like the musical for the politics alone, so. I hope it’s alright.”

“Clarke, how could this be anything _other_ than alright?” the lawyer questions. “I mean – Clarke. Hamilton tickets.”

She’s definitely going to need that bottle of brandy. Holy shit. She’s going to see _Hamilton_.

“Yep, that’s what they are,” the blonde smirks. A Lexa struggling with the basics of the English language is a rare occurrence – and, as such, the brunette is not surprised Clarke is enjoying the sight wholeheartedly. “Oh, God, if you take Anya with you—”

“Clarke. You paid for these. You are coming with me to see _Hamilton_ ,” Lexa responds quickly. “Anya wouldn’t want to go anyway. She does _not_ react well to hip-hop.”

“Like a cat dumped in water,” Clarke giggles. Her laughter stops, deciding instead to look at Lexa with satisfaction scrawled across her face. “And thanks for taking me with you. It sounds awesome.”

The brunette nods. “It truly is. Thank you. So much. For both of these presents. You have no idea how happy this has made me.” She stretches out her arms for Clarke to dive into.

“Oh, I have an idea,” the blonde grins. She settles into the embrace like she’s always belonged there, and Lexa’s getting tired of squashing the thought that maybe she does.

“And your artwork! Clarke, this is incredible. Your Instagram followers would adore this, for sure. Perhaps Lin-Manuel will give it a thumbs up.”

“It’s a _like_ on Instagram, Lex. Besides, I’m only taking a picture of it if you’re in it; it’s _yours_ , after all.” The artist sighs, mock-ruefully. “We’ll get you social media savvy one day.”

“I refuse.” Lexa is still attentively analysing the artwork, hoping to permanently imprint its image onto her brain so she can continue to appreciate it for many years in the future.

“Refuse what? The picture, or being made an _active_ social media participant?”

“Both.”

“Spoilsport,” Clarke laughs, but she doesn’t mean it, not really, because she plants a kiss on the lawyer’s cheek and launches into a commentary about the research she did for the artwork.

If Lexa was not already in love, she thinks, she certainly would’ve fallen right then and there.

 

**_mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _holy shit guys we’re getting a KITTEN_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _YES we know, you’ve told us in all the other chats_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _petition for bellamy to not be the grinch?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _signed_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Signed_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _thanks for believing in me, everyone_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _signed_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _this is a great christmas!_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _there are kittens involved!_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _no grinches allowed_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _if you don’t name her after me, i’m going to be pissed_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _jokes on you, we’re getting a boy_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _then octavian, duh??_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Or leo?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _linc, my wonderful wonderful hubby, love of my life, the reason for my beating heart,_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _be quiet_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _you’re meant to be supporting my campaign_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Sorry yeah, octavian’s cool too_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _whipped_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _guys shut up ur loud n we’re trying to sleep_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _MERRY CHRISTMAS JASPER AND MONTY I HOPE YOU’RE NOT TOO HUNGOVER TO FEEL CHRISTMASSY_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _I think you’re hoping against hope there, rae_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _i WILL make them feel christmassy_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _chill, christmas griffin_

 

 

Just as the lawyer is committing every brushstroke of Clarke’s painting to memory underneath her roaming fingertip, the lights flicker on and the heaters kick in. This is enough to grab their attention: they stare at the newly-illuminated lights for ten seconds, frozen and beginning to unfreeze, before they look at each other, shocked.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Lexa quips, bringing the desired effect of shaping the blonde’s lips into a grin.

“Did they get the backup generator working?”

“It appears so.”

“Does that mean the...?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, thank fuck. I’m dying for a shower.” A peck on Lexa’s cheek, and she’s off, rushing to the restroom to see if the water has restarted, and thus whether her dreams of pleasing hygiene can be fulfilled.

Stumped, the brunette watches her go for a second, the spot on her cheek warming her more than the working heaters ever could. But then she shakes herself, and dives to turn the lights off. Then the plug – her phone needs charge and who is she to refuse to bend under the will of her technological device?

The friendship group surely has things to say, anyway.

**_mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Merry Christmas, Delinquents. Clarke and I thank you all for your gifts, except Clarke is currently testing whether we have been granted basic necessities such as running water._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _MERRY CHRISTMAS PINEY MCPINESTER_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _also lmao no clarke’s messaging the other secret gc rn, the one you accidentally saw_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _i’m hungover as fuck right now, but jas and i hope you liked your hogwarts sweaters_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _you got everyone hogwarts jackets? …that’s so… you_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Pics or it didn’t happen_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Are you that desperate to see these varsity jackets?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _i’m just waiting for when lexa reads raven’s last message, tbh_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _yes!_

**_commanderhearteyes sent a picture: clarke-lexa-hp-jackets.jpg_ **

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _i can sleep happy now. gnight_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Wait, Raven – she’s messaging you on that other group chat?_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _that’s such a cute picture i’m saving it_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _NOW she notices_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _What is she saying?? Tell me._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _duh she’s been doing it this whole time_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _alright, calm down commander, lemme check_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _LMAO lexa how have you not proposed to this girl yet_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _you’re such a couple oh my god_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _what happened_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _What happened_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _what happened?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Raven, that wasn’t an invitation to tease me._

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _what’s happened_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _holy shit i saw her messages DAMN_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _k but you fawn over clarke’s prezzies of hamilton tickets and an art piece of the musical_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _let me repeat, HAMILTON TICKETS_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _she fckin FEEDS you_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _AND_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _you give her a necklace and diamond earring set_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _a replacement printed out letter for the original that went missing_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _from world-renowned artist andrea jacobson who liked her art show_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _and you STILL haven’t jumped her bones yet?? commander lextra your game is WEAK_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _girl the hell up man clarke’s hyperventilating over you_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _oh my god_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _lexa HOW have you not made a move yet_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _also she fed you? this is interesting_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I am… uncooperative in the mornings. If my night is less than standard._

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Lexa’s either an annoying morning person or an annoying exhausted person in the morning, there’s no in between_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Thank you for your vote of confidence, there, Lincoln. Always knew I could count on my brother._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _so she took the opportunity to feed you? in bed? lexa, I don’t do that for lincoln_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _and we’re MARRIED_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Because you’re always awake after me_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _don’t hear you complaining the night before_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _PLEASE NEVER TYPE THAT SENTENCE AGAIN_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _linctavia’s sexcapades aside, the moral of this story is you need to ask your gal out_

**_wellsjaha:_ ** _!!_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I just want her to have a great Christmas regardless. With or without me broaching the topic. Because Clarke deserves to have her Christmas go well, without any more hitches – and this is a huge thing. This is a life-changing thing. That’s a lot to take. It could go wrong._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _is it a lot to take for her, or for you?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Both of us. We might not actually be on the same page. I don’t know the depth of her feelings – or how she wants to go about them. Is she going to wait, or is she going to stay? This is a conversation for a place that is preferably not shared with a hundred other people._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _whenever you do it, commander, do it soon. it’s right there in front of you_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _i know you’ve got your whole “love is weakness” shit going on but from experience, when a woods lets that mantra go, they give their whole heart and it works out well_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _Hear, hear_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _let that mantra go, or let her go_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _your choice_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _wells, no_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _wells YES let’s be CHRISTMASSY_

Lexa is vaguely aware that even catapulting herself out of the hotel window wouldn’t stop her friends’ judgement from raining down upon her. They’d scowl at her from opposite her hospital. Or from opposite her gravestone.

Let it be known: her friends are idiots, but they all have their hearts in the right places.

It seems like the water has finally kicked in, because she hears Clarke’s victorious cry of, “Fucking _finally!”_ and the almost immediate turning on of the shower. It’s a relief. At least, if they return home today, they won’t be wearing _eau de last night’s sweat._

Clarke, however, is one of the people who spends an extraordinary amount of time in the shower – so Lexa spends this time to mentally and physically prepare herself for the day. She gathers her outfit, packs all but her toiletries and her presents from Clarke away – and sits at the desk, analysing the painting gifted to her. What with its owner being the reason for around 90% of the tension in her shoulders, it doesn’t exactly make sense for it to bring her calm. However, there is a reason: ever since she can remember, Clarke’s art has stilled something inside of her, focused her vision to this and only this; now, she is collected, prepared, engrossed. Her thoughts are filled with art, with the love that gives birth to visionary masterpieces, and she wishes never to gaze at anything else but the created, and the creator.

She gets her wish.

Having finally extricated herself from the shower, the artist walks into the main room with nothing on but a towel – and Lexa nearly chokes on air. She’s not even sure that Clarke is actually mortal anymore. She quickly averts her eyes and returns to gazing at the intricately painted pictures of 18th century Americans, determined not to show her best friend her affinity for all things Clarke Griffin.

“Bathroom’s free,” the blonde notes, wandering over to the wardrobe to scour through the mess that constitutes her belongings. “Hey, if they’ve got the water and power working again, d’you think they’ve got things running as normal downstairs? Can people actually _leave_ this place now?”

“We should check,” Lexa nods to the underlying question in Clarke’s words. Her voice sounds robotic – she’s trying desperately not to think of what would happen if that towel fell, whether the sight would cause her to pass from this Earth prematurely or not; she swallows and tries again. “After I shower. We will get answers.”

Clarke nods, yanking a top and jeans out of her specially-made mess. “Yes, Commander.” She turns her head to Lexa and winks. “You’ve gone into Commander mode. All business, no fun. You think I can’t tell?”

“I have no Commander mode,” Lexa grumbles, attempting to direct Clarke away from the implications they’re touching on. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you in a second.”

Her retreat to the bathroom is tactical, but it does not prevent her from hanging her head in shame. Still, she thinks as she readies herself for her shower, sometimes you must lose a battle to win a war. Even if she’s been losing these battles for all her life, even before she knew she was.

 

 

(“Lex?”

Lexa knew that tone of voice. That mewl, that doubting hopefulness that never once fit the brazen Clarke.

She knew when that tone of voice arose – she knew the only thing that could bring it to life. Clarke’s self-doubt did not come from her insecurity as a person, but, rather, her insecurity as an artist. And right now, she was insecure.

Accompanied by her best friend in the only place the blonde could truly relax – the art room – she should’ve felt assured. Confident. The low beams and the messy piles of paints and brushes were home. The unwillingly technicolour floor, never cold even in winter, called to her more than the well-treaded carpet of her bedroom floor did. This was where she could be herself – where she should flourish.

But this was an important piece she was painting: a piece that would go to her chosen university, a piece that would ultimately decide her future. Lexa was going to study law; she had the grades secured and her future career in sights. Yet Clarke, in her chosen profession, was not so secure, and her nerves were shot over getting this one piece right, just so she could really begin her life. She wanted to _begin._

Lexa closed her book immediately. Automatic, without question. She was greeted with the sight of Clarke standing in front of her, her clothes dirtied with paint, a streak of red smudged on her face. Her hands were fists, balled into the pockets of her dungarees.

(In Lexa’s opinion, the dungarees did nothing to show off the shapely figure of the 18-year-old that ensnared the eyes of every teenage boy and girl who should’ve known better. But the blonde still looked incredibly beautiful, and she was sure to get looks wherever she went.

This was what high school was like, now: Clarke and Lexa were the unbreakable duo, loved and feared both respectively and irrespectively, and neither cared for either outcome – just each other, and for the Delinquents.)

Clarke’s eyes were lowering to the floor every few seconds, her nose scrunched and her bottom lip was being worried between her teeth. The brunette knew the warning signs and rushed to rectify them.

“Are you okay?”

“Um,” Clarke stuttered as she shuffled towards her best friend. Knowing Lexa knew what to do, she patiently waited for the other girl to rise from her seat and leaned into the outstretched arms. She responded through the muffling of Lexa’s braided hair and impermeable skin, “No. I mean – maybe? I’m just nervous, I guess.”

Eyebrow raised in curiosity, Lexa waited for Clarke to convey what she needed.

A deep breath in, and a deep breath out. “I finished the painting. I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

“Show me.” It was just a murmur, but it was exactly what Clarke needed.

Neither of them had particularly realised, but the blonde’s art had amassed an audience. The art room had received a steady flow of art students rushing to complete works before their deadlines, but now this streamed seemed to be frozen. Students clustered around this one piece, astonished and unsure how to proceed in the presence of such beauty. Lexa expected nothing less, but was put out by their presences regardless. She scowled at them, and they had the decency to at least disperse slightly.

“I know you’re my best critic, Lex, so I wanted to see what you wanted,” Clarke noted. It was only then that she noticed the others were present – that they were gaping at her art, and watching her. “Um, hi guys.”

All of a sudden, they were eager. Not unlike a pack of hyenas, they babbled over each other, eager to ask questions, to congratulate and praise. It bewildered the blonde; she stood, blinking, and Lexa knew she had to fix this. Immediately.

“Everyone – _out!”_ the brunette snarled. She let go of Clarke and crossed her arms, quietly noting how the tank top she had on highlighted all the times she’d pushed her body to the limit in the gym – and the effect it had on the crowd she was trying to disperse.

It did the trick. They were all gone in a minute, shuffling out of the door or continuing to stare at their own pieces in barely concealed misery. Clarke could breathe again, the mass scrutiny halted. For now.

The blonde linked her hand with Lexa’s – a little thank you – and leant her head on the taller girl’s shoulder.

“So what do you think? And don’t say you love it, because you always say that first. Just tell me what you think.”

Lexa was Clarke’s best critic because she studied the patterns and paint strokes in meticulous detail. Even Clarke’s art teacher couldn’t match her dedication – and she’d tried, as Clarke liked to remind her. So, Lexa elected to approach this piece the way she had always approached the blonde’s art: right in front, where she could see and feel everything.

(For a girl who preferred law to drawing, she understood art pretty damn well.)

She never did it in silence – that was what Clarke was banking on. Lexa always told her best friend what she liked and what she imagined could be improved. She was articulate; she explained in a way Clarke would understand and would never say herself.

But now, she was silent. Contemplative, and silent. Stood right in front, hands clasped behind her back (a habit she’d learned from Indra, a habit that only elevated her position as a born leader), her mouth hung slightly open as she immersed herself in the work Clarke, shockingly, was _doubting._

Clarke watched on, worried.

It was detailed enough for the brunette to imagine the outline of the mural was a windowpane, the outline of another world. She could reach forward, and suddenly she was there: underneath a starlit sky, the forest coming to life. Surrounded by leaves as large as her hand; she could see a path stamped out in the foliage, boot prints making themselves known in the muddy undergrowth. Further up, the trees boasted their sentry state with their crisp bark, ghostly white with the moonlight or black, shaded in darkness. The owl gazed at her through wise old eyes, and she was convinced the luminous butterflies clustering in the bottom left corner were real: their light shined, the patterns on the wings were fragile and beautiful.

Lexa had seen the process of this artwork – seen the sketches, seen how Clarke had laboured over it. Lexa had watched her the entire time, became fascinated by the determination that had gripped the blonde so fully she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work, could barely eat. It was a different version Clarke – one she knew, yes, but one that was still clouded in mystery as the blonde often shut herself in to really concentrate on the masterpieces being coaxed into life.

Lexa had seen this artwork blossom, and, with it, Clarke blossom too. So it stumped her, truly stumped her, to see her best friend anxious over this.

“Is it that bad?”

She’d forgotten Clarke was there. Lexa’s head snapped to the blonde, suddenly forced into reality. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see another art student blink at the two of them in quiet anticipation.

Clarke was unnerved by her lack of response. She kept talking. “My specialty is charcoal, I know, but I thought I might try something new – and I made those butterflies larger, like you said. And… and you’re really freaking me out, Lex.”

That flicked a switch in her. Brought her fully back into the present. Head up, eyes locked onto Clarke’s with all of her emotion on display in her gaze, she responded, “I would pay for this.”

“I – what?”

“It’s realistic. Escapist. Incredibly detailed, with an eye for the larger picture. I would pay whatever money you requested for this,” Lexa answered seriously. “I can imagine this taking pride of place in the lobby of an important corporate building. Or framed, on a wall in a mansion. This is _art_ , Clarke. This is why artists create.”

She was happily oblivious of all the people that had returned to witness the moment. She was happily oblivious of the way the other art student’s jaw had more or less fallen to meet the floor. All that mattered was the look of confounded relief splashed right across Clarke’s face. All that mattered was the battle between shock and joy – and how joy won out, how joy blossomed and shaped those shining eyes, those prominent cheekbones, those rosy lips.

All that mattered was the joy on the blonde’s face, and the joy that came with Lexa’s lungs being crushed in a hug she should’ve expected. All that mattered was Clarke’s laugh, her responding chuckle, and the promise, “You’ll go all the way, Griffin.”

When Clarke pulled back, confidence rushing through those cheeks, it was as if she’d stepped through the painting into a new world. It was quiet, really: Clarke’s giggle petered off into a content sigh, and Lexa blinked.

“I adore it,” she whispered, and Clarke barely breathed.

And that was it. Someone flicked a switch in the back of her head, her heart. She knew.

She adored the painting – but, really, she adored _Clarke._

The crowd be damned – all Lexa knew, in this moment, was that Clarke mattered. All she knew, and from now all she’d ever know, was that she had never seen Clarke as just a friend.)

 

 

“We got the green light to let guests go about half an hour ago. The traffic out there is a nightmare, but at least you’re out of here.”

They’re very aware of this new situation. The lobby is in absolute chaos – there’s an almost permanent stream of hotel guests rushing to escape the hotel’s prison walls, families and couples dressed to the nines in all the protective winter clothing they can find. Lexa spots at least one small child so bundled up in winter layers that it resembles a miniature replica of the Abominable Snowman rather than one of her own species.

Incredibly, she still manages to spot the live turkey she saw running around yesterday, quite at home amidst all the panic. She’s thankful it hasn’t been used to supplement the cooks’ severely depleted food supplies.

The noise level is steadily rising, also: the receptionist’s complete apathy is countered only by the need to speak louder, above the hubbub of stressed families and the occasional gobble from the turkey. It has the effect of making the receptionist look even more prepared to murder everyone on sight, if need be.

Lexa understands that. A businessman, still unwisely clad in only his business outfit – no coat, no gloves, and dangerously slick shoes – knocks into the artist beside her, causing Clarke to topple away from the brunette. Lexa’s arm around the blonde’s waist tightens reflexively and saves her from falling over entirely.

The lawyer spins around and snaps, “ _Watch_ it!” to the impolite businessman. His head already pivoted thanks to the collision, he catches the full force of Lexa’s fury and goes into shock.

The way he shuffles off uncomfortably tells Lexa that his bladder may have been weaker than she anticipated. 1-0 to Woods.

“Thanks, babe,” the artist smiles, as she rights herself. Her eyes swivel back to the man; she gestures for him to continue.

The receptionist yawns, his hand coming up to rub at this eyes. He relays flatly, “However, we are also happy to provide a Christmas dinner for any guests that wish to stay for a while longer – no meat, but what we can cook with the ovens right now. Free of charge. It’s the least we can do, after all.”

Lexa’s brain only just catches up by the end of his unenthusiastic speech. She’s unconsciously decided to replay Clarke’s term of endearment in her head, and it continues long after the lawyer resurfaces to reality.

( _Babe._ She’d like to preserve that moment forever, note it down in her diary.)

But – yes. Eating at the hotel. Right. Concentrate, Lexa.

Clarke turns to look at her, pleasantly surprised. The brunette already knows her answer before she can even argue in its favour.

“Our room’s a mess.”

“ _Your_ belongings are a mess.”

“Details.”

“Regardless, we’re not ready to leave now.”

“The dinner’s free of charge too.”

“We’d eat after the taxi journey, otherwise.”

“Could we even ask to stop off to get food?”

“I don’t think so. If you’re trying to persuade me, there’s no need.”

“I like the way you think, Woods.”

“I’d sincerely hope so.”

The receptionist whips his head in between each woman, hardly able to keep up with their rapid-fire responses. He blinks when Lexa turns succinctly to face him.

“We’d like to have a Christmas dinner here, please.”

“Alright, go through the door on your left, Mrs and Mrs Woods, and you’ll find the dining room.”

Lexa’s dragged off before she can impatiently remind the man they’re not married.

The dining room is, unsurprisingly, sparsely populated. What with the majority of the hotel escapees jumping ship as soon as possible, there are few who are willing to stay for a mediocre Christmas dinner. Only few are willing to wait before returning to normality.

The lawyer is therefore ambivalent to the fact that she and Clarke at the youngest guests in the room. It seems to startle the others, however – their heads snap up and they watch the two women stride to their seats with curious surprise, eyes following every movement. Lexa keeps her head up throughout all of it. She’s used to a more intense type of scrutiny in the court room, and the board room.

The looks may be because of their Hogwarts varsity jackets – donned only after an intense grilling from the artist – and because of the fact that Clarke is still wearing her Santa hat. But they take this in their stride. They’re unstoppable.

They also look _ridiculously_ like the type of couple the brunette scowls about but secretly wants to be. She is extraordinarily pleased with herself.

The waitress on hand can really only offer them one type of food, but leaves them to decide on their drinks. Water for the both of them – and she’s off. She returns with two glasses of lukewarm water, and, afterwards, their Christmas dinners. It’s a combination of anything the cooks could save: vegetables of all types, fruits and fruit sauces, drenched in a thin, steaming gravy. It looks – well, it _looks_ fine. She’s not going to suffer from food poisoning, she doesn’t think.

The artist watches it sail down to the table with a look of pure adoration in her eyes; the plate’s barely out of the waitress’ hands before she’s picking up her cutlery, eager to dig in. At least she waits for the waitress to flit off before she starts eating.

Upon viewing Clarke swallow her first few mouthfuls without choking on them and subsequently dying of food poisoning, Lexa decides the food is satisfactory. She begins cutting up the rosemary-laden carrots on her own plate. Her ears perk up as the blonde, in between chewing on her food, launches into recounting some of her favourite Christmas memories. She begins with the one time her aunt Jane deliberately burnt the turkey to get back at her then-husband. Lexa remembers the story well; she laughs along, inserting the right comments at the right places. When it’s her time to share, she deliberates, letting the table fall into silence. Then she retells the time Anya brought home a date for New Years who, much to their dismay, held completely opposing political views to the entire Woods clan.

(That night, Lexa made sure she acted as gay as possible, just to piss him off. She used it as her primary joke material against Anya for _at least_ six months.)

By this time, they’ve finished their meals. But they’re caught up in their conversation. Clarke leans in, listening and then talking with rapt attention, and Lexa, her arm hooked around the back of her chair, has her eyes locked onto the blonde in front of her. They don’t notice the silent guests, the vague discomfort Clarke and Lexa have shielded themselves from.

And this is how it’s always been. It’s always been _them_ – even when it wasn’t. College life, differing professions, boyfriends and girlfriends – and a long-term friend with benefits, in Clarke’s case; even they couldn’t break the two women apart. They have always found a way to each other.

And it terrifies Lexa that this may change.

Lexa has always had Clarke to prop her up, and to lean on when needed. Clarke has always had Lexa’s careful guidance in her life. Lexa truly cannot imagine a life without their interdependent support system, and their lives are so inextricably linked that it would be impossible to see Clarke disappear from it completely.

The fact that this – this _thing_ – has totally, absolutely, undeniably happened, means there’s a very good chance this fragile balance could disappear entirely. And it is exhilarating – it’s had her trembling in this hotel for a good two days now – but it is also terrifying.

She is very ready, and she is also petrified.

(Fuck.

Feelings are hard.)

So she wants to say the words now. She wants to get them out. Because she’s endured endless teasing from their friends, and she’s suffered through nights of crushing self-doubt, and, if anything, Clarke deserves to _know._ Clarke, even in her Christmas Griffin form, goddammit, deserves to know why Lexa’s been acting off throughout these past two days – no, throughout the whole holiday.

“You okay there, Lex? You spaced out on me then.”

Lexa blinks once, and readjusts to reality. She realises she was very obviously staring at Clarke the whole time – because _that_ isn’t inconspicuous. She clears her throat and sits upright, folding her hands into her lap instead. “Yes, sorry. I – I’m fine. I was just. Thinking.”

The blonde cocks her head to the side, thoroughly examining the flustered gay state Lexa has got herself into. It’s a little too similar to a police interrogation – except this time, the lawyer is guilty only of not hiding her feelings well enough.

“Is this about the messages you saw last night?”

And suddenly, anxious Clarke is back. Which does absolutely nothing to dissuade the fears flourishing in Lexa’s own mind.

“Clarke, we don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to,” Lexa brushes it off. Clarke is clearly reluctant. She’s going to backtrack on the whole thing. Suddenly, Lexa doesn’t feel ready to hear the rejection. “It—”

“No, no, I…” the blonde takes a breath. “It needs to be said. To clear the air a little bit between us, you know.”

Oh. Well. Fine. It seems as if she _does_ have to hear her rejection.

“Yes, of course.”

The room has suddenly gone deathly silent. Internally, Lexa curses her entire existence.

“So,” Clarke starts, picking at the mat placed underneath her finished plate. “That was… yeah, that wasn’t the best way to find out, was it? I’m sorry, I was going to tell you another time. It’s just it’s a bit… embarrassing? I didn’t want anyone to know – Raven and Bellamy kind of found them when I was moving into my current apartment and they don’t shut up about it.”

This is not sounding very positive.

“Are they private, then?” A safe question. An easy question. She’s stalling, clearly, but she’s a master of eloquence and she may just have to use it to finish off this conversation before she hears the inevitable “it’s just a friends thing”.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not normal for your best friend to paint you, is it?”

Lexa wants to tell her she’s honoured. That after the first reaction, the shock of Clarke actually possibly _liking_ her, it hit her just how much passion Clarke must have felt, how much effort she must have put into these. _Her_ face. _Lexa’s_ face. She can’t wrap her head around it.

Lexa wants to tell her, but she won’t and she can’t. She is, after all, 90% certain how this conversation will end.

Clarke sighs again, chewing on her lip. “I mean, I don’t want this to get weird. Between us. Because it’s – it’s my art, you know. It’s special. And we’ll be going back to our families and the end of today, and I won’t see you for a few weeks, and…” Clarke takes this opportunity to pause, to breathe.

Lexa can _feel_ her heart sinking alongside it. Physically impossible, but the mind is clearly very gullible.

“It’s okay, Clarke. It’s just your thing _._ ”

Because that makes sense, doesn’t it? She can be a muse for aesthetic purposes only. Raven and Bellamy have overstated things, inflated its importance – at least, its importance in Clarke’s eyes – and Lexa was just a little too blind in hoping they mean something.

This is where she hears the platonic overtones. This is why her stoicism exists.

Her mask is smoothly back in place, though not without a hard swallows bobbing in her throat, as she rises and prepares to leave the conversation at that.

She notices the anguish laced in the blonde’s features – and for once, feels completely at a loss as to why it’s even evident. If she’s trying to let Lexa down, then why should _she_ feel let down? “Lexa—“

She shakes her head. “Clarke. I understand. You don’t have to worry about it.” She even throws in a smile. “You have my word. Shall we return upstairs to pack?”

She takes a step forward, expecting the artist to stand up after her, to follow her. But, in fact, she’s blocked by the blonde. The stark red of the Christmas hat suddenly zips up in front of her line of sight and then Clarke is front of the brunette, looking – well, intense. And just the _tiniest_ bit annoyed.

(Whoops.)

“Don’t you dare, Alexandria Woods. You didn’t let me finish,” Clarke growls quietly. “So just let me… do this.”

“Clarke, wha—”

And – well.

She has to admit, Lexa never imagined their first kiss to be in a hotel on Christmas Day. Neither did she imagine herself like this, stood up in the middle of a dining room, uncontrollably lost to the feel of Clarke’s lips on hers, completely unaware of the surrounding hotel guests gaping at them.

She imagined many things – more than she’ll ever admit to even Clarke – but this? This is precisely… not what she expected.

Somehow, it’s better.

She can feel that warmth that is so innately Clarke; she can feel the artist’s hands clutching onto her shoulders with something akin to desperation. She can feel the wisps of blonde hair escaping from the Santa hat tickling the crown of her forehead. She can hear the sigh of relief that breaks free from her mouth – Clarke’s mouth? – their mouths – and she pulls Clarke in tighter, locking her arms onto the blonde’s waist, onto her back.

Then the artist’s hands move to her face, and she feels something decidedly not-Clarke on her cheek. It’s slimy and cold and – _ugh._

The two girls break apart, half-disbelieving and half-confused by the substance on the lawyer’s cheek. They’re still wrapped around each other; Lexa’s hands stay on Clarke’s waist while the other girl’s hand slips down to rest on the brunette’s neck. When Clarke’s eyes blink open, however, she realises what she’s put on the lawyer’s skin. The bright blue eyes, heavy with affection, disappear behind fluttering eyelids as the blonde closes her eyes and sighs.

"Damn it, I got gravy on your face,” Clarke curses.

Lexa chuckles, still a little bit intoxicated with this entirely pleasing turn of events. But it’s not long before Clarke joins in, too, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassed but her lips split into the widest grin.

Eventually, the laughter dies down. Then the lawyer wipes away the gravy.

“You kissed me,” she announces.

“You kissed me back. You couldn’t have said anything earlier?”

“I was terrified of ruining your Christmas for you.” It’s worth a shot.

Clarke snorts. “My Christmas would’ve been _better_ if you said that earlier.”

“I know that now,” Lexa nods. “Not that I would’ve known a minute ago.”

“Shut up, I’m not brilliant with my words, you know that,” the artist grins, using her free hand to slap the other woman lightly. “Not everyone can be as eloquent as you, Miss Lawyer. For all _I_ knew, _you_ could’ve been the one rejecting _me!”_

“I would never,” the brunette responds earnestly. Clarke’s eyes appear to be shining now. Lexa groans and rests her forehead on the artist’s. “Why did we not talk about this earlier?”

 

 

“Clarke, the taxi is supposed to arrive in ten minutes and you are still on my lap,” Lexa groans.

Her lips are swollen from the efforts she and Clarke have gone to – as the blonde giggled – “to make up for lost time”. The hotel room is still a mess, with presents still clustered on the bed and Clarke’s belongings still strewn everywhere. Furthermore, Lexa is absolutely not presentable right now, and hardly in the right mind space to converse with actual humans when all her thoughts are currently geared towards one very special person.

Lexa is absolutely infatuated with the girl presently straddling her lap, and she is concerned about little else.

“I’m sorry, Lex, but I have better things to think about,” the artist smiles. Her voice has dropped an octave or so, and Lexa can see her chest is heaving – and good _God_ , _why_ did they not talk about this earlier?

Clarke resumes kissing the brunette, effectively stopping the complaint about to spill out of the lawyer’s mouth. Lexa’s more than happy to fall into the feeling once again. Now, it is far beyond anything she imagined – this is _real_ , this is _true_ , and she gets to remind herself of that with every touch, every kiss, every smile.

This is officially the best Christmas ever. She doesn’t even care that they’re in a crappy hotel. She doesn’t even care that she’s sitting on crumb-infested napkins, either. Merry fucking Christmas to her – she’s with Clarke, Clarke is _kissing_ her, and she may have just ascended to heaven because of it.

Clarke rolls into Lexa, simultaneously gripping Lexa’s hair tighter, and – yep, the lawyer has _definitively_ passed from this Earth into heaven now.

Then Lexa’s phone buzzes from her jean pocket, and she detaches herself from the blonde with a poorly hidden growl. The buzzing is persistent, which can only mean one thing: a phone call.

Clarke whines, and the lawyer considers ignoring the phone call completely on the basis of how _irresistible_ that sound was.

Alas, she is a responsible adult. She has to keep Woods & Co’s reputation squeaky clean. So she sighs and fishes out her phone, accepting the call from Anya immediately. With any luck, she can keep her cool.

As much as she can with Clarke still straddling her, anyway. The blonde’s leaning her arms on her shoulders and twisting her fingers around the brunette’s hair – which does not help.

(It’s one of the most wonderful feelings in the world. It currently doesn’t make any difference.)

“What?” She can barely conceal the utter frustration ripping through her.

_“Glad you finally picked up. Have you read any news outlet in the past two days? At all? Because if you don’t get out of that hotel within the next half hour, you’ll be staying in there until January.”_

Right now, that doesn’t even sound terrible. She sighs and taps the loudspeaker option on the screen. Now Clarke can join the conversation too. “What do you mean?”

 _“I_ mean, _the snowstorm we got dealt with yesterday was just the preliminary shit. The forecasters got it wrong; we got a brief respite from it last night, but the real snowstorm we were expecting is happening later today. If you want to stay in a building that stays warm, you’ve got to move. Now.”_ The sound of movement distracts Anya from what she was about to say. _“Rae, no – we’re only going for a few days; we don’t need to bring our entire wardrobe.”_

Clarke frowns. “What’s happening? I thought you were staying to get your kitten?”

 _“Change of plans. Abby decided she wanted to visit the Woods, and naturally a lot of the Delinquents decided we wanted to join, so don’t expect a quiet night in for you two lovebirds. Abby’s already got your presents, Clarke.”_ Clarke’s eyes widen and she locks gazes with Lexa. _“As for the cat, we’re picking Octavian up on Wednesday – and, yes, Octavia made Raven name him that on actual pain of death. I had nothing to do with it.”_

Lexa mouths a single word: _Deny._ Clarke nods.

“An, we’re not lovebirds.”

 _“Not yet.”_ The lawyer can hear the grin.

“Anya,” the lawyer scowls.

 _“What? This is my job. Raven put me on Pine Watch while she got ready to go.”_ She doesn’t give either of the best friends a chance to reply. _“Be ready for invasive questions, Lexa. You know what the Delinquents are like.”_ Anya hangs up and the call screen disappears, leaving Lexa to heave a sigh. Again.

“I have an idea.”

Lexa balks. Often, Clarke’s ideas end in someone getting into trouble. Usually the lawyer’s the one to haul them out of it.

Clarke wilfully interprets silence as confirmation, because she suggests, “How about we pretend we still aren’t together? Let’s say it’s payback for all the times they’ve wound us up with their matchmaking. We get to be together right under their noses, and they won’t know any different.” There’s a mischievous glint in the artist’s eyes; Lexa would stare at it forever if Clarke hadn’t just started stroking her hair.

The brunette closes her eyes automatically, and noise of contentment rumbles in the back of her throat. But then she pouts. “Then I wouldn’t get to kiss you as much as I’d prefer.”

“We’ll have all night, Lex,” Clarke counters. “Multiple nights, if Anya isn’t exaggerating.”

“You sound like Indra.”

“Please don’t mention your mom when I’m trying to proposition you.”

Oh, God. “Wise words,” Lexa murmurs, leaning further into the blonde. She exhales quietly when her head meets the artist’s shoulder; the golden hair softens the landing even more, and the lawyer burrows herself further into the other woman. She’s content to just stay there in that moment – but then her phone buzzes again.

Clarke picks it up for her. “Uber’s here.”

“ _Shit.”_

“I know.”

“This is why I said you need to get ready.”

Lexa watches as Clarke jumps off her thighs and turns into a hurricane once more. She still can’t find it in herself to care about their lack of punctuality – not when this is the reward.

 

 

**_mission chrimpossible: help lexa get laid_ **

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _update: bellamy is no longer a grump_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _he loves the idea of big family christmases too much to stay angry for too long_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _good_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _because it’s CHRISTMAS_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _anya and i got a kitten_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _wells got a boyf_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _linc got the award for most helpful neighbour on our street_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _he helped the little old lady across the road with scooping away the snow_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _i’d marry him for that if we weren’t already husband and wife_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _jonty got… high probably_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _and clexa got discreet declarations of their undying love for each other_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _A good day all around_

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _my hero!! he’s arrived!!!_

**_orpheusblake:_ ** _get a room_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _fyi, we didn’t get high today. we’re going over to my mom’s so we’re fully sober_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _merry christmas to you all, guys, and congrats again to wells, your new bf sounds awesome!!!_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _thank you!!_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _we’re definitely getting a group photo with those jackets btw_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _even anya_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _if she doesn’t punch me for it_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _my hero <3_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _love you really jas and MERRY CHRISTMAS JONTY_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _< 3_

**_jaspermichaeljordan:_ ** _merry christmas!!_

**_eatyourgreens:_ ** _please keep this group chat updated on clexa please while we’re gone, thanks_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _of course!_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _so, we got desperate_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _lexa, we put up sprigs of mistletoe up on every doorframe so you don’t have an excuse not to kiss your girl_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _also we WILL be quizzing you about your time w clarke and we WILL ask you about our presents_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _because it’s CHRISTMAS_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I’m not sure Christmas is meant to imply an interrogation is in order, Raven._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _pfft of course it does who do you take me for_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _how’s your lady doin? ;)_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _Currently screaming in joy at the change of Wells’ relationship status. I’m sure she’s doing the same in your Lexa-exclusive group chat. Congratulations, by the way! How long has this been going on?_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _And she’s her own woman, thank you._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _you’re a bit late to the party, commander. anything you want to update us on??_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I would update you if I could, Octavia._

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _she’s just screaming to me, don’t worry. and you too, clearly_

**_wellsjahaha:_ ** _and thanks. he’s from work, so i befriended him when i started last year. i’m going to have to introduce you to him someday_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I look forward to meeting him. Evidently, so does Clarke. I love her, but my ears are starting to hurt._

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _That_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _wasn’t a confession. Just to be clear. I’m not telling her that yet._

**_thebetterblake:_ ** _sure, sure, commander_

**_lincolnpark:_ ** _You’ve had 20 years to fall in love, lexa. It’s okay to start saying it now_

**_commanderhearteyes:_ ** _I’m going to leave this conversation._

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _embraaaace the feeeeelings_

**_reyesoflight:_ ** _also hurry the hell up if you’re late the rest of us won’t make it back home before the snow traps us all in_

 

 

Clarke absolutely refused to take off her Santa hat the entire journey home. This is now working in her favour: Lexa has no hat, and, thus, her hair is getting inundated with snowflakes that have just started to increase in number. The lawyer scowls at her hair and frowning as they waited, suitcases and all, for the door to Lexa’s childhood home to open.

“You’re beautiful. With or without the snow.”

Lexa turns her head to the blonde beside her, her smile already breaking through. (Walls? What are walls when it comes to Clarke? She knocked down every single one.) “I – thank you?”

Clarke chuckles, her leg jumping in the cold. “You’re gonna have to get used to that, babe. Now I get to say what I’m thinking _all_ the time.” She pauses. “Maybe not for the next few days, though. What do you think is keeping them?”

The lawyer huffs, and presses the doorbell again. The jaunty tune sounds more like the daunting _Imperial March_ in Lexa’s head. “I don’t know. But I want this to be over with. I can’t stand the idea of not being able to kiss you.”

“This should be a walk in the park for you, Miss Woods,” Clarke beams. “Just do your Commander thing and you’re ready to go.”

Lexa coughs. “You do remember the ‘Commander’ nickname originates from a _very_ different situation, yes?”

“You know what I mean. Just - pretend you have no feelings for me.”

“Clarke,” Lexa swallows. “I can’t ever remember a time where I felt that was accomplishable.”

 _That_ gets Clarke’s attention.

They’re still gazing at each other when the door opens. The sound reminds them of their little game: their heads snap to the person standing in the doorway, and Christmas Clarke immediately comes back in full force.

 _“Merry Christmas!”_ she squeals to the currently indifferent Bellamy Blake. It breaks his apathetic façade – he immediately beams wide at the sight and Clarke rushes to him, dropping her belongings as soon as she steps into the house. Behind him, Octavia, Raven and Lincoln tiptoe into the hall, expectant and excited.

Right. Time to play their game.

It only lasts for approximately half a minute.

Lexa’s eyes latch onto the sight of the mistletoe hanging up on the doorframe, and rolls her eyes fondly. Just behind it, Bellamy picks Clarke up when she goes in for a hug, his booming laugh complimenting her giggle. Lexa can’t help but look on adoringly at the sight. Clarke’s happiness is often synonymous with her own.

The lawyer places her suitcase and bags down neatly, next to Clarke’s pile. She patiently waits her turn, and accepts the historian’s one-armed hug in greeting. “Merry Christmas,” she greets him with a nod. “Are you feeling happier now?”

“Much,” he grins.

“Hey! _Merry Christmas!”_ Clarke yells at the sight of their friends. She’s about to run to greet them, when—

 _“Wait!”_ Raven declares dramatically. She walks over to the two newly-arrived women, eyeing them suspiciously. Then she exclaims, “I _knew_ it! Why didn’t you _tell_ us? Even after all the hard work we put in for you?”

Lincoln frowns. “Rae, I know your intelligence surpasses the rest of us, but you’re going to have to clarify what you’re talking about here.”

She spins around to meet his soft gaze. “They’re _dating_ ,” she announces triumphantly, to the mixed reactions of horror and delight. “These two lovestruck idiots finally dug their heads out the sand and got together. _Finally!”_ She twists her head to the direction of the living room. “Abby? You owe me twenty bucks!”

(Lexa swears she hears Clarke’s mother curse, “For _God’s_ sake.”

She also swears she hears Indra laugh. She’s not quite sure which is more alarming.)

“How the fuck – Raven, what the – we’re not—” Clarke splutters, at the same time as Lexa stuttering of, “How – how the hell did you…?”

Raven holds up a hand, a smug expression shining through. She opens her mouth to speak when Anya makes herself visible.

“One: you two were staring sickeningly at each other when Bell opened the door. Two: Lexa looked at the mistletoe and didn’t complain. The first time in her entire life, if I remember correctly. And, three: even though I told her three hours ago that Abby decided to stay with Indra for a while on Christmas day, Clarke hasn’t once complained about the deviance from their Christmas traditions. Something good must’ve happened for her to forget all about it.” She smirks. “You two are dating. You can’t even _try_ to deny it.”

Even if they don’t outright admit it, Clarke and Lexa at least have the decency to turn beet red.

Thankfully, they’re not inundated with questions neither of them are comfortable with. Not yet, at least. They have things to do: Clarke is insistent on carrying on with _some_ traditions, and Lexa has to greet the rest of her family first.

Lexa loves her family, more so than her own life. Even if absolutely none of the Woods family are related to each other by blood, their bond is deeper than most. Aloofness is their speciality, their defining trait, but there is a warmth that underlies their stoicism, and this is most prevalent during Christmastime. This is why Lexa has never been able to empathise with Clarke’s Christmas traditions: all that matters is family, and Christmas exists where her family is. Only this Christmas, friends and family have combined to create this wonderful chaos.

Almost all of them have congregated in the living room. Presents have been opened, thanks have been given, and photos have been taken. They’re taking the opportunity to relax now. Lexa’s almost certain Raven has stolen her favourite socks, and Anya has called her “Pine McPinester” more times than she can count. Gustus and Abby are giggling over fond memories (read: mortifying memories) of their children over their second glass of wine and Clarke, Octavia and Lincoln are currently tackling Aden to the ground. Bellamy is in a deep conversation with Marcus about some historical figure. Lexa sits, lounging on the cream white leather sofa, with the Christmas tree embracing the room to their left; beside her, Indra surveys the bedlam with the tiniest hint of a smile. She’s content.

“So, how did she do it?”

The brunette stops tracing the company logo on the edge of her new varsity jacket and looks up, indignant. And gapes. “Why do you assume Clarke was the one to make a move?”

Indra is often described as the poker face champion. She barely any emotion fly across her face. But the brunette knows the expression on her mother’s face is a smirk, through and through. Still, she feels chastised, and she doesn’t even know what for.

“Lexa, you have one of the sharpest minds I know of. You are also the most useless lesbian I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across. Clarke is the brave one of the pair of you; that’s plain to see.”

From across the room, Clarke hears Indra’s words and bursts out laughing.

Lexa burns bright red. This is just not _fair._ It _is,_ however, truer than she’d like to give herself credit for. “I _was_ planning to approach the topic today,” she mutters into her wine glass. “At some point.”

Anya’s got Aden preoccupied, so the artist makes her way over to the mother and daughter pair. (Lexa can never remember having that much energy at the age of 14. He must’ve got it off Lincoln.)

“She was setting herself up for rejection,” Clarke smiles. “I was trying to tell her that my art was _special_ , so her paintings were even _more_ special, but I didn’t want it to be a casual reveal. It’s so much more important than just a throwaway comment, you know? She thought I was dismissing her significance as my favourite muse.”

Indra tuts. “She is very good at elevating others, but not herself.”

“What is this, Attack Lexa Day?” the brunette sighs.

“It’s out of love, Lex, I promise,” Clarke reminds her in a singsong voice, rubbing her nose into Lexa’s cheek affectionately. “For what it’s worth, I agree with your mom. I think you should give yourself more of a chance at relationships. You care about others so much, and it’s just… I keep saying you’re special, but you _are_.”

She’s suddenly overcome with emotion. So much love and happiness. Lexa swallows; the sunflower at full height bows before the light. Her lips find Clarke’s, and they smile into it without a care in the world.

The words are on her lips, but it’s been less than a day. And she wants to make this one last.

“Ha! G—” Octavia manages to clamp her hand around Raven’s mouth just in time.

As she breaks away from the kiss, Lexa shoots her coldest glare at the mechanic, making the blonde next to her snigger.

Indra rolls her eyes and stands up. “Open door policy, girls. You’re not married yet.”

That stops Clarke’s sniggering.

The teasing, afterwards, only heightens. In the presence of Aden, it stays relatively PG-13 (thank God, because she doesn’t want to ruin his innocence prematurely). But Raven’s and Octavia’s persistence is such that Lexa and Clarke actively seek out the younger child of the family just to get some respite from it all. Aden is undoubtedly aware of her underlying motives, but they enjoy the time they spend together as a three regardless. She sees him less and less now she’s making her own way in the world, and sometimes it’s refreshing to retreat into old patterns with him.

Until, he, too, starts teasing Lexa about her new relationship with Clarke – especially when they’re all in the same room, watching their favourite Christmas specials on the TV. Only then does Lexa admit to herself that this barrage of mocking at her expense will never cease. Only exhaustion can stop the teasing.

She gazes around at the room: the overhead lights are dimmed, but the Christmas lights still shine as bright as ever. Dotted around the room are her friends and family, all with bellies stuffed and happily on the way to sleep. Gustus has his arm wrapped around Indra – their eyes are just starting to droop; Abby is full-on snoring, her head resting on Kane’s shoulder. Bellamy is splayed out on the floor next to a snoozing Aden; opposite them, Anya keeps tapping restlessly on Raven’s arm in a bid to keep the mechanic alert. Lincoln has his hands stroking Octavia’s hair as she snoozes peacefully from in between his legs. Clarke has burrowed her head into Lexa’s shoulder – from behind the lawyer, the blonde’s breathing is starting to even out.

There’s hardly a sound in the room, except from the television. And Abby’s snoring, but that’s always a given after a few glasses of wine.

Forfeiting the game was worth it, Lexa thinks.

 

 

“For how long, then?” Clarke asks through a yawn. Lexa turns around to face her again, blinking in the darkness to find the eyes she’s grown so accustomed to seeing. Even now, they seem to shine. Propped up on one arm, Clarke smiles down at her. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“ _Lexa_.”

The brunette smiles. “Sorry. I suppose I always felt it, but… I knew for certain in high school.” She’s nervous, all of a sudden. What if this is all new to the artist, and she’s scared by the depth of Lexa’s feelings? She swallows it down. She has to carry on regardless. “Do you remember that final art piece you sent off to our college when you were trying to get in?”

“Of course,” Clarke breathes. “You told me: _This is why artists create._ Lexa, how could I ever forget a phrase like that?”

Lexa nods, her fears dissipating into the cold air of the bedroom. “I hoped you wouldn’t. I treasure that memory. I can’t even remember who was in that crowd when I told you I adored it. All I remember is saying those words, and then realising I really meant that I adored _you._ Clarke, your art is so important.”

“Of course, Miss ‘It’s just your thing’,” Clarke smirks. But she plants a kiss on Lexa’s forehead regardless.

The lawyer groans, burying her head into the crook between Clarke’s chin and her chest. It’s warm there, comforting. “What will it take to make you forget that momentary lapse in judgement, Clarke?”

She doesn’t even need to lift her head and see the expression on the blonde’s face to anticipate her response – but she does anyway. Because, apparently, any ounce of self-preservation she’d retained had flown out of the window the second Clarke kissed her.

The look on Clarke’s face is downright ruinous. Thrills run down Lexa’s spine at the promise of all that will entail; she can hardly wait.

“Oh, I can think of a few things.” The blonde pushes forward to kiss the brunette, and Lexa is willing to dive headfirst into the fire. Right there, right then.

“Abby and Marcus are sleeping in the room next door,” the lawyer reminds the other girl when they break apart. It physically pains her to say it – but, again, she is the one with responsible streak. “And will be doing for the next few days if this snow doesn’t stop.”

“I don’t want it to stop,” Clarke responds earnestly. “This has been the best Christmas ever. I mean it. And I accidentally ran into Johnny Marr a few Christmases ago. _Johnny Marr._ This is a big deal, Lex.”

Lexa crooks an eyebrow. “Would it still be a bigger deal even if you ran into Morrissey?”

The blonde chuckles. “Yes, even bigger. But Johnny Marr’s my favourite anyway. Happy now?”

“Indescribably.” Her hand comes up to rest over the artist’s chest; even beneath the layers of clothing, of skin and muscles and bones, Clarke’s heart beats feverishly underneath her palm.

This is why artists create, Lexa thinks. To feel this alive, to feel this sunlight.

Clarke watches quietly, letting her have her moment. She needs this.

“When did _you_ realise?”

The blonde immediately has an answer – of course she does. “After Costia. She came to me, the day after she broke up with you. It was the last time I saw her. She was honest with me. Said she couldn’t be the person who got in the way of you and me – of us. I told her she was wrong, that you were just my friend, but – she took my hands, and she told me to look. _Really_ look. So I did. And I saw… you.” Clarke takes a strand of Lexa’s hair then, starts twisting it. Her heartbeat is still frantic. “I saw you as my muse. I saw you in all the stories we used to tell growing up together, about knights and kick-ass princesses. I saw you everywhere, and I never stopped seeing you. _I’ll give you the moon. How about that?_ I saw you in that. I’d give you the moon, if I could. I knew you’d try and figure out a way to get it yourself, but I knew… I’d give it to you anyway.”

Lexa makes a point of not crying. She prefers to keep the badass _Commander_ persona in as many aspects of her life as possible. (Well, less now.) But if she had to cry for one particular moment – well, of _course_ it would be this moment, wouldn’t it?

Because, it’s like Lincoln said: she’s had 20 years to fall in love. No – she’s had all her life.

And, finally, it’s hers to appreciate.

She can’t believe she ever got so lucky. All because of a misplaced snowstorm, too, that trapped them at Christmastime.

“I guess we’re keeping with tradition,” Clarke murmurs when they rise with the sun. “Every year, something monumental happens around Christmas. Something bad, or good. You were that monumental thing. And you’re so good, Lexa.”

That’s all she ever wants in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - come shout at me on rosadebnam.tumblr.com!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send kudos and comments - and, as always, you can find me on rosadebnam.tumblr.com! Thanks for taking the time to read my Clexa ramblings!


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